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Ah! there in deepest solitude Sometimes I have wild nature wooed, When nought of living thing was nigh Except the Water-wag-tail shy, By nature's hand so trigly dight In speckled feathers, black and white, Which flew before from stone to stone, And hopped and bobbed thereupon;

It did bateful question frame.

Those would be of different shades of colour according to the time of year at which they were produced, those bred about May-day undergoing no change from their white colour, but from a white rack become a whole skin; […]