Ill 



IN THE WEST COUNTRY 



I 

 A GLIMPSE OF THE BARLE 



SIX days' C. O's. leave meant transition 

 from a London dep6t, surrounded by 

 bricks and mortar, to the rich valley of 

 the Barle. Although it was mid-March, 

 winter in that year of grace was loth to let go its 

 grip witness the bare bushes, the sombre-hued 

 woods, the beech fences still a determined brown. 

 But the bleating of lambs, the singing of thrushes, 

 that indefinable feeling of approaching spring, 

 told a gladder tale. 



A forenoon start was made just by a bridge, 

 one corner ivy-clad. The morning still was dull 

 and gloomy, and prospects seemed poor ; yet all 

 this mattered not, for it was the old, old sport, and 

 good it was to have rod in hand once more, to 

 feel again the swish of water against waders. 

 "Very early for waders," the wise man says. 

 The justice of the observation is admitted. But 

 the Barle, far from its source, is big as well as 



