SELBORNE 285 



begun to fall on the previous evening ; and when in 

 the morning I looked from my bedroom window in 

 the wayside inn, where I had passed the night, it 

 was raining still, and everywhere, as far as I could 

 see, broad pools of water were gleaming on the level 

 earth. All day the rain fell steadily from a leaden 

 sky, so low that where there were trees it seemed 

 almost to touch their tops, while the hills, away on 

 my left, appeared like vague masses of cloud that rest 

 on the earth. The road stretched across a level moor- 

 land country ; it was straight and narrow, but I was 

 compelled to keep to it, since to step aside was to 

 put my feet into water. Mile after mile I trudged 

 on without meeting a soul, where not a house was 

 visible — a still, wet, desolate country with trees and 

 bushes standing in water, unstirred by a breath of 

 wind. Only at long intervals a yellow hammer was 

 heard uttering his thin note ; for just as this bird 

 sings in the sultriest weather which silences other 

 voices, so he will utter his monotonous chant on the 

 gloomiest day. 



It may be because he sung 



The yellow liammer in the rain 



that I have long placed Faber among my best-loved 

 minor poets of the past century. He alone among 



