mouth.

“Oh! come, I say, that won’t do down in the country; here, it’s seven o’clock, and we’re going to have such a stinging hot day. Do get up and dress. There is Phil down the garden now.”

“Ah-aw-aw—yes, I’ll get up,” said Fred, yawning again. “But what early folks you are; we don’t get up so soon at home. What time do you have breakfast?”

“Eight o’clock, and Papa never waits for anybody; so make haste down, or we shan’t have time to do anything before it’s breakfast bell.”

“I want some hot water,” said Fred, grumpily.

“What for?” said Harry.

“Why, to wash in, of course,” said Fred.

“Ho! ho! ho!” burst out Harry, laughing, “hot water to wash with in July! Why, we never use any all through the winter, when it’s ever so cold, and the jugs get frozen over. You try cold water, it’s ever so much better, and makes you have red cheeks like Phil’s.”

“Hi, hallo-o-o!” shouted somebody front out of doors.

“There’s Phil,” said Harry, going to the window and throwing it open, when in came gushing the sweet morning air, laden with the dew sweetness of a thousand flowers. The roses and jasmine nodded round the casement, and from almost every tree within reach of hearing, right down to the coppice, came ringing forth the merry morning songs of the birds.

“Oh!” said Fred, in a burst of admiration as he went to the window, half dressed; “oh! isn’t it beautiful? I never thought the country half so pretty. I wish I had got up sooner.”

“Do you?” said Harry. “Won’t we have you up, then, to-morrow morning! But only look; Phil has found an old ‘bottle washer.’ Do make haste and come down, and we’ll put him in the ferret’s cage.”

“Oh! do stop,” said Fred, splashing his face about in the cold water, and hurrying to get finished; “do stop for me, there’s a good fellow.”

Five minutes after the three lads were together upon the lawn, rolling a prickly, spiky hedgehog over and over in the vain hope of getting him to open out and show his black, bright little eyes, and sharp piggy like snout; all which time old Sam was busy at work, making his keen bright scythe shave off the little yellow-eyed daisies that seemed sprinkled all over the green turf that was so soft and elastic to the feet.

“Chinkle chingle, chinkle chingle,” rang out the scythe, as he held it over his shoulder, and sharpened it with his gritty rubber, and then again shave, shave, shave, over the velvet grass, till long rows of the little strands lay across the lawn.

A comical old fellow was Sam, and he used to say that no one loved the young masters so well as he did; but somehow or another Sam never used to see them out in the garden without finding something to grumble about. His complaints were generally without foundation; but Sam used to think he had cause to complain; and, being rather an old man, he used to consider he had a right so to do.

“Now then, Master Harry, you’re at it again! What’s the use of my trying to keep the garden nice if you will keep racing about over it like that? I wish you’d keep indoors, I do.”

“We ain’t going to, though, are we, Phil?” said Harry, laughing. “Old Sam would be sure to fetch us out again if we did; wouldn’t you, Sam?”

Old Sam grinned, and shook his head, and just then eight o’clock struck by the village church, which was about a mile off, so Sam wiped his scythe, and, shouldering it, walked off to his breakfast, just as a cheery cry of—“Now, boys,” came from out of the verandah, where Mr and Mrs Inglis were standing, watching the lads upon the lawn.

The pretty breakfast-room looked so bright and cheerful; there was such an odorous bunch of dew-wet roses in a vase; such sweet scents, too, came through the open window, and such country farm-house bounty spread upon the breakfast-table, that Fred told his cousins after the meal that he had never enjoyed anything before half so well in his life.

“Now, boys, what are you going to do to-day?” said Mr Inglis.

“Going fishing, Papa, in Trencher Pond,” said Harry.

“Why, there’s nothing there worth catching,” said Mr Inglis.

“Oh yes, Papa!” said Phil. “It’s full of sticklebacks, and such beauties! Some are all gold and green and scarlet; the most beautiful little creatures you ever saw, and it is so easy to catch them; and, besides, it is so pretty there now.”

“Oh, very well!” said their father; “only I’ve got leave for you to fish in Lord Copsedale’s lake next week.”

“Hooray!” said Harry; “that’s capital.”

After breakfast Fred was all in a state of ferment to be off to Trencher Pond. All was new to him, for he did not even know what a stickleback might be, and he longed to see some of these gorgeous fellows that were all over “gold and green and scarlet.” They were not long in getting equipped for their trip, for Harry soon produced three willow wands, some twine, worms, and a tin can to hold the spoil; and, thus provided, away they started, with the full understanding that their dinner would be ready at one o’clock precisely.

They had only about a mile to walk down a green lane, and then to turn off on the little common which contained the pond, but that mile took a long time to get over, there was so much to do, to see, and to listen to; there was the hole where the wasps had a nest to look at; there were the nimble squirrels to watch as they darted across the road, and, scampering up the trees, peeped down at the visitors to their domains. Ah, how Fred longed to have one of the little bushy-tailed fellows, as he watched their nimble tricks, scampering and leaping from bough to bough as easily and fearlessly as a cat would upon the ground. Then there were so many pretty wildflowers in the banks and hedge-rows; so many birds to learn the names of, for they were all strangers to Fred, who only knew sparrows—and they were different to the sparrows down here at Hollowdell—and canaries and parrots. There was a hedge-sparrow’s nest, too, to peep at, with its tiny little blue eggs; but not to touch, for, though Fred wanted to take it, Harry and Phil said “No;” for Papa did not approve of the birds being disturbed. Then there was a beautifully-formed mossy little cup-shaped nest in the fork of a tree, just inside the coppice, smooth, round, and soft-edged, with the horsehair and wool lining all plaited together, and made as even as possible. It was so low down that, by bending the branch, the boys could look at it, which they did, while the poor chaffinches, in the horse-chestnut tree close by, cried “pink-pink-pink” in a state of the greatest alarm lest their work should be destroyed; and the pretty cock bird, with his crested head, pinky breast, and white-marked wings, burst out into a loud and joyous song, short but sweet, as the three young travellers journeyed on. And what a horse-chestnut tree that was all one mass of pinky white blossoms, the tree itself one mighty green pyramid of graceful leaves, and then, from top to bottom, hundreds and hundreds of the blossom-spikes standing like little floral trees themselves; while from every part of it came a continuous hum, as the bees and other insects rifled the honeyed treasures and bore them away.

“Oh!” at last burst out Fred, in perfect rapture; “oh! don’t I wish Mamma and Papa were here! I never did know how beautiful the country was.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed his cousins, each holding one of his hands; “come along, that’s nothing to what we are going to show you.”

And away they raced through the gate, and across the little common to the pond in the corner, where the golden furze-bushes hung over the side.

Philip was right: it was a pretty pond. Such water—clear, bright, and deep, with all kinds of water-plants growing therein; golden lilies, silvery water buttercups, tall reeds, short thin rushes with their little