'If you had been an infant prodigy like me, Chops, you would not have got so stout.'
'No, w'ich I knows that; but, lor'! in our line o' business, Lotty, there must be some o' all sorts, mus'n't there, miss? Look at Mary, f'r instance; she fills a niche, an' fills it well, as the boss says. Look at Skeleton; 'e drops intil another niche. An' look at me. If I was gettin' thin, an' Skeleton a-puttin' on o' flesh, the show would be ruined. That's wot I says. Is not them your sentiments, Lotty?'
'Exactly, Chops; but—what were you saying?'
'I was a-sayin’’——
'Oh, look at those woods, how lovely they are, Chops. Don't they inspire you, boy?'
'Ah! you've been a-readin' o' Shakespeare again; but I'm a bit o' a pote myself, Lotty, and prisintly, w'en we feeds the gulls'——
Woods and forests are romantic everywhere and at all seasons of the year: on the banks of quiet streams in summer time, where in their shade the wild-flowers hide and kingfishers dart to and fro; by the lake-sides, in rolling clouds, their greenery mirrored in the dark water; spreading over valleys and climbing over hills or high up the mountain's side itself, till checked by Nature's warning hand. But far north here, November is the artists' month par excellence, because, though touched with the frosts, the forests are not yet bare, and on the braes rising in loveliness on every hand the foliage, touched by the sunlight, gleams with every hue and tint, crimson of maple, bronze of beech or oak, brown of the elm, and dark-green of the waving pine, with higher up the silver stems of the weeping-birch.
No wonder that this enthusiastic little gipsy lass stood for a while with face upturned, the wind lifting and toying with her hair, to gaze around her and admire. But yonder, sailing tack and half-tack, and coming nearer and nearer to her, were her friends the gulls—sea-birds of every size and species. During the summer months they might have been seen far up the rivers and streams, sometimes seventy miles from their native ocean, whitening every stone or boulder, or in rows on fences around farmyards patiently waiting until it was feeding-time with the fowls, that they might share their meal. But even in the fa' o' the year, up among the mountains, storms and blizzards howl and blow, and the sea-birds are glad to seek the sands by the shores.
Chops opened the basket. Here were all the morning scraps from the camp, enough to feed a thousand wild-birds, and down they now crowded, swaying and screaming around the maiden as she tossed the pieces in every direction of the compass, that all might have a share. Among them were many of her own particular favourites or pets, and they had special tit-bits which they took from her hands or shoulders and even from her lips. But not all sea-gulls were they, for a sprinkling of rooks flew amongst them, and even warty-headed old carrion-crows and hoodies. These, however, had none of the dash and daring of the more elegant and shapely gulls, nor would they approach so closely to be fed. But the last particle had been distributed and devoured, and the birds went circling farther and farther off, until they seemed to melt away in the gray haze of distance.
Then Lotty threw the basket on the benty grass, and sat down for a few moments to look at the sea. It was of a darker blue to-day, because