A PACK OF STOATS.

BIRDS.
The sweet scent from a beanfield beside the road caused me to linger one summer morning in a gateway under the elms.

A gentle south wind came over the beans, bearing with it the odour of their black-and-white bloom.

The Overboro' road ran through part of the Okebourne property (which was far too extensive to be enclosed in a ring fence), and the timber had therefore been allowed to grow so that there was an irregular avenue of trees for some distance.

I faced the beanfield, which was on the opposite side, leaning back against the gate which led into some of Hilary's wheat.