THE DIPPEE 81 



tended sluices overflowed on the way to mill or 

 farmstead. 



The brook-trout were too small to tempt any 

 angler to leave the sport afforded by the main 

 river, and as the byways of the country had little 

 attraction for my neighbours, I was always alone 

 when rambling through the dingles and the 

 gorges. 



After becoming thoroughly familiar with every 

 part of the valley I seldom proceeded further 

 than a certain spot, only about half a mile from 

 the weaver's cottage, but difficult of access at 

 all times to a stranger. With one exception, the 

 numerous cattle-paths leading thither end in 

 swamp and tangle, and this one path is not 

 easily followed. 



The perfumed breath of spring seemed to 

 ascend like an invisible incense-cloud from the 

 dingle far beneath, as one morning I climbed 

 the low hedge-bank half-way up the hill beyond 

 the cottage, and afterwards moved down the 

 path skirting the precipitous woods towards the 

 brook. The sounds of the feeder, the wheel, and 

 the loom mingled in a distant monotone. Nearer, 

 at the margin of the woods, many little cataracts 

 hissed and bubbled. And still nearer, within 

 the woods, where the brook reflected the sun- 

 light between the trees, the voice of the water 

 was subdued and tremulous, as the current rose 



