78 . Idylls of the Field. 



headlong through, to widen further down in a deep, 

 dark pool that the storms of ages have hollowed in its 

 granite bed. 



Tall young royal ferns fringe with pale fronds the 

 wandering shore. The steep bank is crowned with 

 tangled underwood and knotted willow-roots, in whose 

 shade the otters come by night and plunge down into 

 the pool below, where now the slow-moving water 

 lingers by the shore to double in its magic glass the 

 beauty of the broom. 



High over all rises a belt of noble woodland, among 

 whose clustering trees you may catch brief glimpses 

 of warblers stirring in the bushes, of ring-doves that 

 forage in the rustling leaves. 



Now a whitethroat, after warbling half his breathless 

 little madrigal in the heart of a thicket, rises high in 

 air, as if upborne by the resistless impulse of his happy 

 soul, singing all the while ; and then, the music ended, 

 he dives headlong downwards into the green depths 

 to sit again beside his mate. You watch his flight, 

 but the song itself can hardly reach you here across 

 the river. The air is full already of soft and soul-like 

 sound. 



Over all other voices swells the ceaseless murmur of 

 the river. At times is faintly heard the mingled music 

 of the birds far up the slope in the shadow of the 

 trees, the stir of leaves that flutter overhead, the soft 

 sighing of the wind that ever lightly stirs along the 

 stream. Yes, 



