Early in the month Of May I found myself, one fine evening, walking about the platform Of Carnforth Station, waiting for the train to Ulverstone. It was that delightful time' of day when the birds were beginning to get stiller, and might be heard more distinctly than before, singing their little nestward solos with drowsy delight, here and there among the trees. The train started, and for the first time I was rolling towards Ulverstone, by way Of the Cartmel shore. We were soon over the little river Keer, which, having left the hills, comes gliding through a green plain on the right, and then on across the Lancaster sands, where its shifty channel has been the death-bed of many a gallant man. Now we came to Silverdale Station, where brown~ faced, stalwart men were unloading timber, or lounging about the whole some looking, work-a-day village. In a few minutes we are Off again. Gardens, and comfortable stone-built farm-houses, and little orchards all white with apple-blossom are ?itting past, and the ragged» summits Of Cartmel Fells draw nearer to the eye.
