"They sang, as blithe as finches sing,
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never miss'd."
Cowper.
I was creeping, crawling, and scrambling one afternoon in the days of my
boyhood, through tall furze at the foot of the Drummond Hill, which in
England would be called a mountain. It was the Saturday half-holiday,
and I was having a fine time of it among the birds. I was quite a mile
away from any human dwelling, and, I flattered myself, from any human
being either. I was speedily undeceived though. "Come out o' there,
youngster," cried a terrible voice, almost to my ear. "I thought ye
were a rabbit; I was just going to chuck a stone at your head."