DAYS 161 



angling excursions were becoming per- 

 ceptibly shorter. He was tired by the 

 time he reached the brink of the moor, 

 and then he would often turn to look 

 back over these purple plains, hoping 

 that when hislast evening came he would 

 be there to wave a farewell to the scene 

 that he loved while the music of the 

 water still sounded in his ears. And 

 never did the lonely sedge-bird's song 

 bear a sweeter message than in these 

 last days. The old angler would await 

 its coming in the early season of the 

 March Brown, when the budding bog- 

 myrtle lay like a lake of crimson amid 

 the wintry rushes of the hill-swamps. 

 He would think of it as he trudged 

 wearily home, and listen eagerly for it 

 to begin in the reeds which shivered in 

 the evening wind. The warbling would 

 sometimes pierce the gathering dark- 

 ness with a loud and impatient tone, 

 then it would suddenly sink into silence 

 ii 



