Flowcr-de-Lucc. 105 



down into the tangle by a distant hedgerow— visiting 

 his nest perhaps, or stooping to dip in the cool stream 

 his yellow bill. 



Among the trees across the brook there lies a 

 little space of marshland circled by swift streams : a 

 tangle of alder and willow, a wilderness of buck- 

 thorn and hazel ; a place of treacherous ground, in 

 which the unwary foot may suddenly sink deep in un- 

 suspected mire. Among its thickets birds find safe 

 sanctuary, and it is the very Camp of Refuge for all 

 the children of the river. 



Across two great willow trees, that, uprooted by 

 some wintry storm, lie locked in close embrace, you 

 may pass the little stream. 



In the shadow of the mingled boughs that arch it 

 over like a cloister roof, the brooklet wanders clear. 

 Trout are poising in mid-stream, water-rats sit silent 

 by the shore. 



As you pause a moment in the shade of the grey 

 willow leaves, even a kingfisher settles near, and 

 watches with keen eyes the silver flow. So near is 

 he that you can see his tiny feet that grasp the 

 rugged bark, can see the glitter on his burnished 

 feathers. So stands he for a moment, silent, motion- 

 less, beautiful. Then with sudden start spreads wide 

 his wings, and sails across the meadow like a gleam of 

 light. 



It is a very jungle that lines the farther shore. 

 Knee-deep are the tasselled sedges, breast-high the 



