to leave darkness and dirt and gloom (though not, like the may-fly, for ever), and flee away on wings the mighty steam provides until he finds himself once again in the fresh green fields he loves so well.  And truly he gets his reward.  He has come into a new world—­rather, I should say, a paradise; for he comes when meadows are green and trees are at their prime.  Though the glory of the lilac has passed away, the buttercup still gilds the landscape; barley fields are bright with yellow charlock, and the soft, subdued glow of sainfoin gives colour to the breezy uplands as of acres of pink carnations.  On one side a vast sheet of saffron, on the other a lake of rubies, ripples in the passing breeze, or breaks into rolling waves of light and shade as the fleecy clouds sweep across azure skies.  He comes when roses, pink and white and red, are just beginning to hang their dainty heads in modest beauty on every cottage wall or cluster round the ancient porch; when from every lattice window in the hamlet (I wish I could say every open window) rows of red geraniums peep from their brown pots of terra-cotta, brightening the street without, and filling the cosy rooms with grateful, unaccustomed fragrance; when the scent of the sweet, short-lived honeysuckle pervades the atmosphere, and the faces of the handsome peasants are bronzed as those of dusky dwellers under Italian skies.

     No daintie flowre or herbe that grows on ground;
     No arborett with painted blossoms drest,
     And smelling sweete, but there it might be found,
     To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al around.

     E. SPENSER.

What a pleasant country is this in which to spend a holiday!  How white are the limestone roads! how fresh and invigorating is the upland air!  The old manor house is deserted, its occupants having gone to London.  But a couple of bachelors can be happy in an empty house, without servants and modern luxuries, as long as the may-fly lasts.  It is pleasant to feel that you can dine at any hour you please, and wear what you please.  The good lady who cooks for you is merely the wife of one of the shepherds; but her cooking is fit for a king!  What dinner could be better than a trout fresh from the brook, a leg of lamb from the farm, and a gooseberry tart from the kitchen garden?  For vegetables you may have asparagus—­of such excellence that you scarcely know which end to begin eating—­and new potatoes.

For my part, I would sooner a thousand times live on homely fare in the country than be condemned to wade through long courses at London dinner parties, or, worse still, pay fabulous prices at “Willis’s Rooms,” the “Berkeley,” or at White’s Club.

What a comfort, too, to be without housemaids to tidy up your papers in the smoking-room and shut your windows in the evening!  How healthful to sleep in a room in which the windows have been wide open night and day for months past!