268 FIELD AND HEDGEROW. 



through midland meads present a broad, calm surface, 

 at the same level from side to side ; they flow without 

 sound, and if you stood behind a thick hedge you would 

 not know that a river was near. They dream along the 

 meads, toying with their forget-me-nots, too idle even 

 to make love to their flowers vigorously. The brown 

 Barle enjoys his life, and splashes in the sunshine like 

 boys bathing — like them he is sunburnt and brown. He 

 throws the wanton spray over the ferns that bow and 

 bend as the cool breeze his current brings sways them 

 in the shade. He laughs and talks, and sings louder 

 than the wind in his woods. 



Here is a pool by the bank under an ash — a deep 

 green pool inclosed by massive rocks, which the stream 

 has to brim over. The water is green — or is it the ferns, 

 and the moss, and the oaks, and the pale ash reflected ? 

 This rock has a purple tint, dotted with moss spots 

 almost black ; the green water laps at the purple stone, 

 and there is one place where a thin line of scarlet is 

 visible, though I do not know what causes it. Another 

 stone the spray does not touch has been dried to a 

 bright white by the sun. Inclosed, the green water 

 slowly swirls round till it finds crevices, and slips 

 through. A few paces farther up there is a red rapid — 

 reddened stones, and reddened growths beneath the 

 water, a light that lets the red hues overcome the 

 others — a wild rush of crowded waters rotating as they 

 go, shrill voices calling. This next bend upwards 

 dazzles the eyes, for every inclined surface and striving 

 parallel, every swirl, and bubble, and eddy, and rush 

 around a rock chances to reflect the sunlight. Not one 

 long pathway of quiet sheen, such as stretches across a 

 rippled lake, each wavelet throwing back its ray in just 

 proportion, but a hundred separate mirrors vibrating, 



