136 Sporting Sketches 



The paddle strokes are firmer and a purl of music 

 whispers from the bow. We are nearing, hey ! old 

 dog, and never have we rounded this bend without 

 a thrill of genuine pleasure. Look at it and say can 

 this be the North ? The liquid floor narrows away 

 like a mighty lance-head pointing to a glory of daz- 

 zling sunshine, and the soft-draped walls receding 

 in perspective true, lower and soften to a golden 

 haze of the distant open. Huge velvet shadows 

 hang like windless banners; each tree seems rooted 

 to a tree inverted, and over all is flung a living mesh 

 of vine and creeper, bloom and bud and burnished 

 leaf. It must be fairyland ! From tents of green 

 sound silver pipings and tinkles of tiny revels. A 

 pause, and the flutter of foliage surely is the clap- 

 ping of wee hands. It is fairyland ! Yon sun-dried 

 pebble by the water's rim takes flight and curves 

 away on trembling pinions which shake sweet music 

 from them as they go. A sandpiper ? Nonsense ! 



Hark ! Tick-turr ! tick-tick-turr ! A fairy clock 

 hid midst those leaves, its ruby pendulum swinging 

 in plain view ? Absurd ! The clock has stopped, 

 and yonder the pendulum, a dart of fire winged with 

 ebon smoke. 'Twas the tanager swinging on a liv- 

 ing cord. That rattle a snare drum ? See where 

 the quick ring broadens. 'Twas Alcyon striking 

 the silver galleons of the dreamy sea of this our land 

 of Spain. Can grief be here ? A sobbing sweet 

 and low, a hopeless misery floating from a tender 

 breast too rudely torn ; a mother peering through the 

 dingy pane, racked by raw memories and the joys 

 of others which she may not share. Oh ! actor dove, 

 we know thy sweet deceit. Thou sham of arms 



