At the Bend of the River. yj 



and deepens the soft blue shadows among the elms 

 that tower into the dreamy air. 



Here behind this fringe of alders no breath can 

 reach you from without; ever the warm sun beats 

 down upon this sea of boulders — the playthings of 

 the wild river in far-off days, the days when all was 

 young. 



As you bask in the sunshine, you may watch at will 

 the birds that haunt this quiet nook ; watch the dainty 

 wagtails wander up and down upon the yellow sand, 

 hear the musical cry of the sandpiper borne on swift 

 wings down the shore, see the dipper flying to his nest 

 in the cool and moss-grown hollow in the rocks across 

 the stream, where tasselled sedges clinging to the 

 bank below lean down to kiss the water, and, lightly 

 touched in answer by the careless ripples, keep time 

 for ever to their rhythmic song. 



Higher up, at the bend of the river, where it widens 

 out over the rapids, the sunlight plays on every whirl 

 and eddy of the swift-running water until a belt of 

 silver, almost too bright to look on, quivers among 

 the dark, moss-tinted stones. 



From the sparkling shallows tiny trout are leaping 

 in the sun, and over the water is poised a cloud of 

 gnats in shadowy column, ever rising, falling, circling 

 up and down, the hum of their myriad wings unheard 

 in the murmur of the stream. 



Below the dipper's nest the channel narrows be- 

 tween the rocks, and the river rushes in green waves 



