JUNE. 145 



The golden meadows stretched right across on either side of the 

 crystal stream (though the back waters were as thick as mud), and a 

 "school" of Rooks were busy jumping and hawking in the midst of 

 an extra special clump of golden Crowfoot and purple Clover and 

 snow-white Oxeye Daisies. Under the bridge a pair of Swallows 

 had built their grass nest, slightly mudded near the base, and placed 

 on the top of one of the underneath boards. Over and under the 

 bridge these birds were ever and anon flying; May-flies danced 

 (rather than flew) close to the margin of the river; and a fine two- 

 pounder Trout was very fond of dobbing about in the shallows with 

 his tail out of the water. From the belt of woodland came the 

 welcome cry of the Cuckoo, the cooing of the Doves, the 

 plaintive notes of the Chiff Chaif, the Willow Wren's little melody, 

 and the form of a Kestrel appeared over the tree-tops. Our last hour 

 in this charming district was worth the whole day we had spent in 

 the scrubs, where no wild life was astir. Here we may sit by the 

 hillside, trace the stream as it winds along to empty itself in the 

 Thames, watch the farmer trudging homewards (greeted as he passes 

 by the favourite Nags), and the holiday-makers gathering posies of 

 wild flowers (to take home, perchance, to the stifled garret in East 

 London), and enjoying for a few brief hours of respite the glorious 

 freedom and beauty of this fair land of England. We see in the 

 distance the farm labourer, bag slung on shoulder, pipe in mouth, 

 going home to a well-earned rest; we notice the farmyard, into 

 which a few cattle are at the moment being driven; we bring within 

 range the home of a good English sportsman, the Ivy-clad walls 

 trimmed wonderfully neat and natty, and the lawns decked out like a 

 miniature paradise. As we sit watching, we notice someone gradually 

 coming through the avenue of trees in the distance, some two miles 

 off. It is the genial owner himself, coming towards the stream to 

 cast the fly, in the endeavour to lure the speckled Trout. It is about 

 an hour before sunset; the tropical heat and the noontide glare has 

 passed; in fact, by the river it is getting quite chilly; but the fish 

 are on the move at this hour. When high up, one can place the 

 hand almost on any particular field or spot in the valley below. It is 

 a fine scene; it leaves an impression behind never to be forgotten, 

 and when we visit the district again we know what a treat is in store 

 for us. 



6th. Heavy rain last night. Dull and breezy early, afterwards 

 bright. Nightingale singing near my house at 10 p.m. 



7th. Heavy rain last night, but brilliant sunshine this morning. 



10 



