8o By Leafy Ways. 



The birds that chattered to each other as the 

 morning broke are silent in the heat. 



A kingfisher shoots like an arrow down the stream 

 from his perch on an old punt moored under a willow. 

 A few pigeons drop lazily into the ripening barley. A 

 greenfinch alone breaks the stillness with that drowsy 

 monotone so suggestive of indolence and sleep. 



Not every peerless dawn is followed by a perfect 

 evening. As the sun sinks in the west great masses 

 of cloud that have long been gathering up from the 

 southward spread themselves rapidly over the sky. 



A few scattered drops mar the silver of the water. 

 Then all the wide landscape is veiled by the grey robe 

 of the rain. The river darkens under the leaden sky, 

 while gusts of fierce wind ruffle it here and there with 

 sudden flaw. Dark and chill the evening closes in, 

 a lurid glare in the west showing where the sun went 

 down in the angry cloud-wrack. 



Or it may be that the day of sunshine is crowned 

 by a peaceful twilight. 



No breath of wind disturbs the silver stream. The 

 low banks with their fringe of grey willows ; the cattle 

 ruminating in the meadows ; the tall trees by the shore : 

 the few soft clouds that float across the clear wide 

 heaven, are reflected in the magic mirror so faithfully 

 that none can tell where the image ends and reality 

 begins. In the wake of the boat the water is broken 

 into alternate lines of silver and crimson. A belt of 

 fir trees stands cold and dark against the glowing sky. 



