A RIVER PATH. 



T N the pleasant month of May the flyfisher begins, 

 by many a mountain stream, to ply his gentle craft. 

 The angler, reappearing as he does each spring like a 

 bird of passage, returns like the home-coming swallow 

 to the well-beloved, secluded haunt. 



And now perchance, as, with rod in hand, he turns 

 his face once more towards the scene of many a 

 glorious day of toil and triumph, he pauses a moment 

 on the ancient bridge that spans the Dart, and leans over 

 the rude parapet for a first glance at the familiar river. 



The time-worn arches of the bridge are draped with 

 ivy, and the crevices of the masonry are outlined with 

 tufts of tiny ferns. The massive piers against which 

 the waters fret with ceaseless murmur project up 

 stream like rams of fighting ships. For these battered 

 buttresses, about whose feet the silver ripples now are 

 playing with soft caressing touches, have felt the shock 



