TROUT 71 



listening to the legends the grim old 

 mountains have to tell. 



Although far away in the downy 

 clouds, the skylark will accompany us 

 with its heaven-sent melodies. The hum 

 of bees will mingle with the gaiety of 

 the rippling brook. The fragrance of 

 heather and wild thyme, the refreshing 

 odour of peat and green rushes, and the 

 warm, sweet scent of gorse will blend 

 with the shimmering atmosphere of 

 summer that rises like incense from the 

 purple moor. 



Miles away, the blue sea stretches a- 

 cross the horizon, and we may dream of 

 its idle ripples, ever curling and tossing 

 themselves into running lines of foam. 

 A little nearer, and the yellow sands of 

 a tidal river are girt by fields of whiten- 

 ing grain and darkening woods, through 

 which the white roadsof the valley thread 

 their winding ways. Here and there a 

 wheat-stack gleams in the corner of a 



