THE OTTER'S STORY.

The sunshine and the singing all around are full of the gladness of life, but the far-away hills seem to tell of a land of vision nearer the blue sky, nearer the sun, where, if ever footfall come, there will be peace.

But nearer and far tamer hills are between us and the " land of Beulah," hills lying in long ridges of moorland, high enough for the stag's-horn moss to trail its long wreaths along the turf, and wild enough for the golden plover to haunt in winter, for a solitary grouse to whirr away in its vibratory flight, and for the nesting larks to spring up almost under your feet, soaring up in the blue sky to meet the sun, and fill the air with music.

The moorland sloping ever downwards is broken at last into wooded knolls, and larch covers fringing the fields which skirt the lowlands, where through meadows of emerald green, the river winds, a chain of light and colour, "blue in the shadow, silver in the sun," winding downwards to the rocks, until far-down overhanging trees make a cool arched cavern for the river, and glimpses of sunshine through the boughs light up here and there the broken water and all its dancing foam-bells.

Here was the otter's home, or rather one out of several, for he had fishing-stations up and down the river, homes of refuge and all that sort of thing; but for the present his chief resort and residence was in the bank, just below a group of weird old trees which overhung the water. The river here made a great bend, and before it reached the