THE DIPPER 79 



the winter storm. Even when the blast is bitter 

 as the breath of death, the stream still sings 

 among the pebbles by the ford. Perhaps, while 

 seeking his food beneath the surface of the water, 

 the dipper had heard the secret of perpetual 

 happiness whispered by the spirit of the brook 

 as perhaps the wren had often heard it whis- 

 pered by the spirit of the wind through the patter 

 of the hail on the withered oak leaves in the 

 hawthorn -hedge and for that reason is wholly 

 undismayed. The song of the wren is, somehow, 

 in keeping with that of the wind, and the song 

 of the dipper with that of the waterfall ; and 

 probably, just as the song of the wren 

 has made that bird a favourite among the 

 country-folk, so the song of the dipper has a 

 bright, peculiar charm for the sportsman, who, 

 in the secluded fastnesses along the brook, listens 

 to the wild, twittering carol rising clear above the 

 undertones of the breeze and the brook. 



About half a mile from my home, the Lower 

 Road beside the river turns abruptly northward, 

 and begins a steep ascent in the direction of the 

 moorlands. At the foot of the hill, a weaver's 

 cottage stands near a sun-flecked brook that 

 turns an old-fashioned water-wheel. Here all 

 day the rhythmic clack of the shuttle mingles 

 with the sounds of the groaning wheel, the 

 splashing " feeder," and the rippling ford. 



