Ravenshoe. By Henry Kingsley.

188 RAVENSHOE.
ever. The young men began to slip away from work somewhat
early of an evening, not (as now) to the paradc-ground, or the
butts, but to take their turn at the wicket on the green, where
Sir John (our young landlord) was to be found in a scarlet flannel shirt, bowling away like a catapult, at all comers, till the second bell began to ring, and he had to dash off and dress. Now
lovers walking by moonlight in deep-banked lanes began to notice how dark and broad the shadows grew, and to wait at the
lane's end by the river, to listen to the nightingale, with his
breast against the thorn, ranging on from height to height of
melodious passion,-petulant at his want of art, till he broke into
one wild jubilant burst, and ceased, leaving night silent, save for
the whispering of new-born insects, and the creeping sound of
reviving vegetation.
Spring. The great renewal of the lease. The time when
nature-worshippers make good resolutions, to be very often broken before the leaves fall. The time the country becomes once
more habitable and agreeable. Does it make any difference in
the hundred miles of brick and mortar called London, save, in so
far as it makes every reasonable Christian pack up his portmanteau and fly to the green fields and lover's lanes before-mentioned
(though it takes two people for the latter sort of business)?
Why, yes; it makes a difference to London certainly, by bringing somewhere about 10,000 people, who have got sick of shooting and hunting through the winter months, swarming into the
west end of it, and making it what is called full.
I don't know that they are wrong after all, for London is a
mighty pleasant place in the season (we don't call it spring on
the paving-stones). At this time the windows of the great
houses in the squares begin to be brilliant with flowers; and, under the awnings of the balconies, one sees women moving about
in the shadow. Now, all through the short night, one hears the
ceaseless low rolling thunder of beautifiul carriages, and in the
daytime also the noise ceases not. All through the west end of
the town there is a smell of flowers, of fresh-watered roads, and
Macassar oil; while at Covent Garden, the scent of the peaches
and pine-apples begins to prevail over that of rotten cabbagestalks. The fiddlers are all fiddling away at concert pitch for
their lives, the actors are all acting their very hardest, and the
men who look after the horses have never a minute to call their
own, day or night.
It is neither to dukes nor duchesses, to actors nor fiddlers, that
we must turn our attention just now, but to a man who was sitting in a wheelbarrow watching a tame jackdaw.
The place was a London mews, behind one of the great squares,
-the time was afternoon. The weather was warm and sunny.