uncertainty of human life, and the unabidingness generally of all sublunary things; and the superstition was perhaps more effectual in this direction than would be the most carefully composed sermon. But the philosophic aspect of the case apart, let us inquire why the facts mentioned should be held as premonitory of death. The crowing of the cock has probably some connection with the denial of St. Peter, and in it, too, may perhaps be traced a faint remnant of the bird divination of the ancients. As to the itching of the nose, we confess our inability to say anything satisfactory, beyond the fact that in old times anything unusual and difficult to be reasonably accounted for in man's physical economy, as well as in his mental, was at once attributed to a supernatural cause. Of this the ringing in the ears, as well as the itching in the nose, must be held to be an example. The well-known ringing in the ears does come with extraordinary suddenness, as we have all experienced, and when it comes makes the most staid philosopher look foolish and out of sorts for the moment. Its connection with death is perhaps to be traced to the passing bell of early and medieval times, and to the tolling of bells at funerals even in our own day. Sir Walter Scott, who knew the peasantry of Scotland so well, and sympathised so much even with their superstitions, has a happy reference to the deathbell in a passage in Marmion :— "For soon Lord Marmion raised his head, Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, Say, what may this portend?' Then first the Palmer silence broke (The livelong day he had not spoke), On this passage there is an interesting note very apropos to our subject :-"Among other omens to which faithful credit is given among the Scottish peasantry is what is called the 'dead-bell,' explained by my friend James Hogg to be that tinkling in the ears which the country people regard as the secret intelligence of some friend's decease." He tells a story to the purpose in the "Mountain Bard," p. 26 "O lady, 'tis dark, an' I heard the dead-bell, An' I darena gae younder for gowd nor fee." "By the dead-bell," says Hogg, "is meant a tinkling in the ears, which our peasantry in the country regard as a secret intelligence of some friend's decease. Thus this natural occurrence strikes many with superstitious awe. This reminds me of a trifling anecdote which I will relate as an instance. Our two servant girls agreed to go an errand of their own one night after supper, to a considerable distance, from which I strove to persuade them, but could not prevail. So, after going to the apartment in which I slept, I took a drinking-glass, and coming close to the back of the door, made two or three sweeps round the lips of the glass with my fingers, which caused a loud, shrill sound. I then overheard the following dialogue :-B.-" Ah, mercy! the dead-bell went through my head just now with such a knell as I never heard." C.-"“I heard it too." B.-"Did you indeed? That is remarkable. I never knew of two hearing it at the same time before." C.-"We will not go to Midgehope to-night." B.--"No! I wouldn't go for all the world! I warrant it is my poor brother, Wat; who knows what these wild Irishes may have done to him?" Tinkling, however, which both Scott and Hogg use, is not the word. It is more of a ringing, so clear and loud at times, that we once heard a little girl say "there was a bell in her head." Our authorities above confess that it is called the "dead-bell" amongst the peasantry, and by bell they mean not a tinkling but a loud and very pronounced sound, as if of solid metal striking hollow metal, and causing the bell-sound with which we are all so familiar. Mickle, in his fine ballad Cumnor Hall, has a reference to the same superstition : "The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, An aerial voice was heard to call, Around the towers of Cumnor Hall." To sneer at such beliefs, and pooh-pooh them superciliously and from a philosophical stand-point, is easy; it has been tried with but little satisfactory result. The true philosopher will be more and more disposed, the more he deals with such matters, and the closer he examines them, to fall back on Hamlet's dictum, "That there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy." So ineradicable is superstition of this sort, that you may battle with it long enough we have battled with it for years-and find it at last by no means the weaker of your assaults, no matter how cautiously and circuitously you select to deal with it. After an unusually mild and open season, we have just had a taste of downright winter in the bitterly cold gales and drifting snow-storms of the last few days. Our weatherwise old folks are of course delighted that winter in proper dress and form has come at long last; better late than never, is the cry, and a bright and warm spring in due course is confidently predicted. CHAPTER LI. Welcome Rain in May-Plague of Mice in Upper Teviotdale-Arvicola Agrestis-FieldMice in Ardgour-How exterminated-A Singing Mouse-Farmers' Mistakes-Mackenzie the Bird-Catcher. You AFTER rather more than six consecutive weeks of weather so hot and dry and parching [May 1876], that we were all rapidly becoming hide-bound, brown-skinned, and sapless as so many Egyptian mummies, the rain came at last; came, too, not delugewise, and with a splash and a roar as is generally the case after such long-continued droughts, but calmly and softly as falls the dew of sleep on infant eyelids, and without a breath of accompanying wind. The earth, long agape with thirst, drank it in greedily, and vegetable and animal life alike rejoiced in the grateful quiet as well as in the copiousness of the blessed rainfall. should have heard how, when the first drop began to fall, our wildbirds welcomed it. All at once, in wood, and copse, and hedgerow, they burst out into loud and gladsome song; nor did they cease when the rainfall was heaviest, as they usually do, but kept it up far into the night, the merle and song-thrush now and again breaking out afresh as if they couldn't sufficiently express their joy, even after we had retired to rest, and well pleased lay listening to the music of the raindrops as they fell plashing and pattering from the eaves. Even our least accomplished songsters took their share in this concert, and if they did not, simply because they could not, sing as well as their more gifted companions, they made at least, as the Ancient Mariner has it, a pleasant "jargoning," therein, dear reader, teaching us all this lesson, that if our gifts prevent us from playing any great or prominent part in the orchestra of life, we are yet all the same to perform the parts assigned us as best we may, and always cheerily and with a will. Next morning again was calm and mild and beautiful as a summer morning could be, while the country already looked so fresh and green and lovely that one could hardly believe that such a marvellous change had taken place in the course of a single night; so potent, in such circumstances, is the kindly touch of the Rain King's-magic wand. The plague of mice in Upper Teviotdale is a very serious matter indeed, and the most energetic steps should at once be taken in order to check and, if possible, stamp out the evil. These little rodents multiply with incredible rapidity, and if they are to be fought a l'outrance and conquered, the sooner the campaign is opened, and the more vigorously it is conducted, the easier and speedier will be the victory. The short-tailed field-mouse is fortunately a rare animal in the Highlands, though we have occasionally met with it in the districts of Lorne, Lochaber, and Badenoch. We have also seen it on the lands of Drumfin, near Tobermory, in the island of Mull. Once seen, it is easily recognised again. Its colour, instead of being of the ordinary "mouse" shade of grey or brown, is red, or reddish; its head is more bulletlike and rounder, and its snout blunter than in any of its congeners; and its tail ends abruptly, giving that appendage a docked and stumpy look, as if by accident or design one-third of its proper length had been cut off in early life; and hence its common designation of short-tailed field-mouse. Every one who has tried to capture a common domestic mouse with the bare hand, knows to his cost how quickly and sharply it can bite; but the little field-mouse never once attempts to bite the hand that holds it. If pounced upon while running about in the rough bent grass in which it usually shelters, it no sooner feels itself fairly enclosed in |