THE WET-FLY ANGLER 43 



grants. The cuckoo " tells her name to 

 all the hills," happy swallows are singing 

 as they fly. Garrulous whitethroats in 

 the thick undergrowth of the hedges, 

 and cheery little willow-wrens high up 

 in the tall trees, newcomers all, are claim- 

 ing attention. 



Up, up the angler goes until the stream 

 that roared and gushed between steep 

 banks, heavily wooded, in its lower 

 reaches, widens out upon its moorland 

 course and flows in a succession of merry 

 little cascades and easy-going pools. 

 The water is slightly tinted with last 

 night's rain, but the bright sky is mir- 

 rored upon its glittering face. And far 

 away through the moorland, yet brown 

 and bare, save for the gorse that blazes 

 in patches of gold among the sober 

 heather, it winds, an ever-narrowing line 

 of light, until it is lost in a mist of blue 

 that curtains the mountains of the west. 

 Rills, cold and crystal clear, filter through 



