216 WILD LIFE IN HARD WEATHER 



homewards from the woods along the riverside. 

 As I reach the pool under the farm, a " bunch " 

 of teal starts up from the rushes, and, with a 

 great whirr and whistle, hurries away towards 

 the distant gorge. Over the now quiet pool 

 lingers the pale radiance of the passing day, and 

 I pause for a while by the brink, gazing at the 

 red glory of the sunset fading into the blue mist 

 of the dusk. Near the hedge a mothering sheep, 

 with head bent to the ground, keeps lonely 

 watch over her prostrate, new-born lamb. From 

 the distance comes the mournful cry of a restless 

 lapwing. Overhead, the moon, scarcely more 

 than half a disc, and wearing a resemblance to 

 some cold, time-worn face, looks down on the 

 shivering, sleepy world. 



Often, in long-gone years, I have stood by 

 the pool, looking, as now I look, towards the 

 west, and waiting for the sun to sink behind the 

 hill, before the big rod came into play and the 

 gaudy salmon-fly shot out over the stream. 

 " There, sir, 'tis all in shadow at last ; now for 

 a twenty-pounder ! " Ah, I had fallen into a 

 reverie ; how clear seemed the voice of the old 

 gillie ! But that voice, except in memory, may 

 never again be heard during my daily rambles. 

 Let me continue my way, lest wistful fancy make 

 the world seem colder than it used to be in those 

 years that have now passed into silence. 



