THE BOOK OF DAYS.

through shade and sunshine, and watch the blue
dragon-flies sport above the bluer forget-me-nots,
that nod their tufted heads to every breeze which
ripples the water. There fancy floats away, and
where the drooping willow gives a white shiver as
the underpart of the leaves are turned to the
light, and the brook rolls along singing a quiet
tune,' we conjure up the image of sweet Ophelia,
'her clothes spread wide' upon the glassy stream,
and seem again to hear her warbling snatches of
old tunes' till, mermaid-like, she sinks beneath the
weeping-brook.' Then we hear the bleating of
sheep that come down from some hidden bending
of the water-course, and journeying along we see
an old-world picture, such as the gray patriarchs
had often looked on, and which is familiar to us,
through the Bible-pages, unaltered through thou-
sands of years; for there we find them washing
sheep, just as they did when David and Solomon
paused to look at the sheep-washers, beside the brooks
that flow through the valleys around Jerusalem.
The mind wanders away into the twilight of those
remote ages, and we wonder who she was whose
teeth he in his Songs compared to a flock of sheep
'which come up from the washing.' In our
wanderings through the nooks and corners of
England, we have seen sheep-washing in such plea-
sant places, that had they been selected purposely
to harmonise with this picturesque occupation, it
would scarcely have been possible to have added
a new beauty to the scene, though trees are always
beautiful when reflected in water, especially when
they also overhang a ground of green. The wattled
hurdles, running in lines beneath the wide-spread-
ing branches, which enclose the white sheep,
making gray patches of light under the boughs,
and upon the greensward; the sheep-washer
ing in the pool, and the idlers in every variety of
coloured costume assembled on the banks, and
all mirrored in the water, make as pretty a rural
picture as the eye can delight to dwell upon, and
which seems ever changing its hue under the
shifting lights of heaven. Then those brown
sinewy labourers clutch at the fleecy sheep as
they are driven down the bank-keeping their
heads clear of the water, while they roll them
to and fro, making incessant circles of ripples,
for as one releases a sheep, another seizes upon it,
until the immersion is completed, when it swims
to the opposite bank, and there stands bleating,
while the water drops from its heavy-hanging
wool. Now and then you hear a loud laugh from
the spectators, for the chubby farmer's-boy, who
has to drive the sheep into the water for the men to
wash, finds one that is obstinate, at which he pushes
with all his might, when the animal gives a sudden
spring, and the boy falls headlong into the pool.

yield as much as fifteen pounds of wool each. It is amusing to watch the lambs after the dams are clipped, the way they go smelling about them, and the pitiful bleating they make, until the mother answers, when they at once recognise her voice, and all doubt in a moment ceases.

Sheep-shearing feasts, like harvest-homes, are of ancient date; for we read in the Bible of Nabal, who had three thousand sheep in Carmel, holding a sheep-shearing feast in his house 'like the feast of a king,' and the custom still remains amongst many of our English sheep-breeders in the present day. It is pleasant to know that such old-world customs are still kept up; that when the owner has gathered the wool that clothes him, and the corn that feeds him, he should make glad the hearts of those who have borne the burden and heat of the day. While this busy work is going on, the bean-fields are in bloom, and fill the air around with such a perfume as makes the wayfarer feel languid, longing to lie down in the midst of it, and with half-shut eyes dream dreams.

At every passing gust which ripples the fields, the corn now makes a husky whisper, and there are white spots on the long ears, which tell that it is fast ripening, and that bending reapers will soon be busy with their crooked sickles in the harvest-field. We now see amid the grass that is powdered with summer-dust, the most beautiful of all our wayside-flowers, the pretty pimpernel, which, though but little larger than the bloom of the common chickweed, fairly dazzles the eye like a gem with its rich crimson petals. By the very rim of the cart-rut, and close by the dent of the horse's hoof on the brown highway, it blows, a thing of beauty, that has no peer in garden or stand-green-house, whether blood-red, crimson, or scarlet, for nothing but the flashing blaze of the red poppy of the cornfield, can be compared with it a moment for richness of colour. Country-people call this wayside beauty the poor man's weatherglass, and the shepherd's clock; and it never errs in announcing the approach of rain, for long before we can discover any sign of the coming shower, we find its deep-dyed petals folded up in its green cup. As a time-keeper, it may be relied upon, always closing at noon, no matter how fine the day may be, and never opening again before seven on the following morning. Its leaves are also very beautiful, of a fine clean oval shape, and on the underpart spotted. Often near to it, on the sunnyside of the hedge, may now be found the dull golden-coloured agrimony, with its long spiked head up-coned with little flowers, the favourite 'tea' of the poor cottagers, and a thousand times more delicious than some of the rubbish sold as tea in low neighbourhoods, for it makes a most refreshing beverage. Scarcely a leaf can be found on tree, shrub, or plant, to equal in beauty of form that of the agrimony, so deeply and elegantly are the edges cut, and so richly veined, that they carry the eye from the uppiled head of five-petaled golden flowers, which so gracefully overtop the foliage. The fragrance, too, is quite refreshing; only bruise this elegant leaf between the fingers, and it throws out an aroma that can no more be forgotten than the smell of roses. The next favourite as a tea-making herb among our old country-women, is the wood betony, now in bloom, and which forms a winding

About a week or so after the washing, sheepshearing commences; the reason why clipping' is delayed for this length of time is, that the fleece may regain its oily nature, which it can only do through the wool becoming thoroughly dry, when the shears cut through it easily. This also is a busy time, and we have seen half a score sheepshearers at work at once, the large barn-door having been lifted off its hinges and raised about a foot above the ground, to place the sheep upon, while they were shorn. By night the barn looks like a large wool warehouse, so high rise the piles of rolled up fleeces, and some of our English sheep