CLEAR WATERS 



Penruddocks' rising against Cromwell, and lost his 

 head. 



But enough of this. The booming of cannon, 

 the rumble of commissariat wagons, the cracking of 

 musketry, and rush of squadrons is now not far away. 

 Thus far down the valley and a little farther peace 

 still reigns. But away beyond, from the great church 

 of Enford to the woods of Netheravon, and from 

 Netheravon by Durrington and Figheldean to Ames- 

 bury the stir of martial things is always in the air, and 

 in the campaigning season it seems odd to some of us 

 to read in the newspapers of two great armies fighting 

 along the whole line of the quiet, secluded, little trout 

 stream we used to know so well. Sometimes the 

 designers of the great autumnal war-game lay it down 

 that the Avon is to stand for a sea-coast which is to 

 be defended from an invading enemy, and we find in 

 our morning papers a large-scale map of its course, with 

 all its mills and villages and little bridges set forth 

 in capitals as strategic points upon which the great 

 British public are requested to fix its critical eye. Of 

 a truth times are changed on the Avon and on the 

 Plain! 



The prettiest bit of the Kennet, to my thinking, is 

 where with quickened pace it runs over gravelly 

 bottoms through Ramsbury Chase, hard by the lake 

 below the manor-house, which its waters feed, and 

 where trout of fabulous size disport themselves. And 

 again, below where it steals on to that haunted Little- 

 cote, under whose Tudor gables wild Darrel is credited 

 by local legend with such heinous deeds, and which 

 with much greater certainty sheltered Dutch William 



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