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THE WATER^COLLEY. 



The sweet grass was wet with dew as I walked 

 through a meadow in Somerset to the river. The 

 cuckoo sang, the pleasanter perhaps because his brief 

 time was nearly over, and all pleasant things seem to 

 have a deeper note as they draw towards an end. 

 Dew and sweet green grass were the more beautiful 

 because of the knowledge that the high hills around 

 were covered by sun-dried, wiry heather. River-side 

 mead, dew-laden grass, and sparkling stream were 

 like an oasis in the dry desert. They refreshed the 

 heart to look upon as water refreshes the weary. The 

 shadows were more marked and defined than they are 

 as day advances, the hues of the flowers brighter, 

 for the dew was to shadow and flower as if the 

 colours of the artist were not yet dry. Humble-bees 

 went down with caution into the long grass, not liking 

 to wet their wings. Butterflies and the brilliant 

 moths of a hot summer's morn alight on a dry heated 

 footpath till the dew is gone. A great rock rising 

 from the grass by the river's edge alone looked arid, 

 and its surface already heated, yet it also cast a cool 

 shadow. By a copse, two rabbits — the latest up of all 

 those which had sported during the night — stayed till 



