This is sloped at the
invariable and disgusting angle of 45 degrees. Beyond it rise further
wooded slopes, with snow gleaming through the deep green, and above all is
the changing sky, where the clear blue gives way to a billowy expanse of
white rolling clouds or dark rain-laden masses, which pour into the upper
clefts of the ravine, and blot out the serried ranks of the pines, until a
thorough drenching seems inevitable--when lo! a glint of blue through the
gloomy background, and soon again,
"With never a stain, the pavilion of Heaven is bare."
The immediate foreground, as I said before, slopes sharply from my very
feet, where a clump of wild sage and jasmin (the leaves just breaking)
grows over a charming little bunch of sweet violets. Lower down I can see
the lilac flowers of a self-heal, and the bottom of the little gorge is
clothed with a bush like a hazel, only with large, soft whitish flowers.
My solitude has just been enlivened by the appearance of a cheerful party
of lovely birds. They are very busy among the "hazels," flying from bush
to bush with restless activity, and wasting no time in idleness. They are
about the size of large finches--slender in shape, with longish tails.
They are divided into two perfectly distinct kinds, probably male and
female. The former have the back, head, and wings black; the latter barred
with scarlet, the breast and underparts also scarlet. The others--which I
assume to be the females--replace the black with ashy olive, the wings
being barred with yellow, the underparts yellowish.
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