THE TROUT-STREAM. 335 



that serves as a watering-place for cattle and flocks. Here 

 it takes a momentary rest then leaps forward tumultu- 

 ously through a glen bordered with alders and honey- 

 suckles, occasionally glittering in sunshine in the open- 

 ings, like a frolicsome child who often turns beaming with 

 laughter. Then we trace its quiet meanderings through 

 a wide level of green meadow, impurpled with the blos- 

 soms of pea-vines, and where Arethusa, once the nymph 

 of a fountain, scatters her bloom over the meadow like 

 wreaths from the rainbow. 



But it would be vain to bring to memory all the green 

 lanes we have crossed, in following the capricious stream 

 in its wanderings, of all the sweet and flowery meadows 

 we have passed over, of the dank, rushy shallows we have 

 waded, of the tracts of dark, silent woods through which 

 we have followed it, and of the numerous cascades it has 

 formed as it leaps down from the table-land into the 

 space below. It would seem as if it consciously pursued 

 the most picturesque paths over the country, affording 

 glimpses of distant towns, when suddenly emerging from 

 the hills, then leading us almost to the doorstep of rustic 

 farm-houses, surrounded by their solemn cattle and their 

 smiling children. 



The day begins to decline as weariness creeps over 

 us. The outlying fields show but narrow gleams of sun- 

 shine between the gathering shadows. The brook still 

 keeps on its restless and melodious course, not ceasing its 

 motions with the sleep of animated nature, nor its music 

 with the silence of the birds. The trees grow dim and 

 dubious in the shade of the hills, while some of their 

 loftier summits are tipped with the amber glow of sunset. 

 Homeward we take our solitary walk, while the vesper-bird 

 sings from some neighboring hay-field, or, still later, the 

 whippoorwill chants his melancholy notes as we wend our 

 through dewy footpaths to our home in the village. 



