THE WATER OF THE MOORS 



THE romance of water is little known to him who 

 draws it from the housewall by turning a tap. It is 

 the spirit of a leaden pipe twenty yards long and of 

 iron pipes perhaps twenty miles long, all the brightness 

 of an earlier origin strait-waistcoated out of it. All 

 that can be said for it is that it is good enough for the 

 strait-waistcoated people who compel it from its laby- 

 rinth in the depths of a town. Not good enough for 

 us when we come from the tent with bare feet on the 

 dew-drenched grass and ask for water for the break- 

 fast coffee. We dip the can from the torrent gushing 

 between rocks that its impetuosity can wear no deeper 

 than a chance impurity may cling. Then we lay it 

 aside and take our morning dip in the pool from which 

 it gushes, scaring the minnows and the trout with our 

 happy floundering. Now, see the miracles that happen 

 in this moorland water when it is upon the fire. For 

 miles it has burbled and chattered in rocky waterfalls 

 and cascades, sweeping here, tumbling there, resting 

 at whiles, but fully making up for delays by later 

 impetuosity. You can see or divine at sight that its 

 history has .been free and happy, but only when the 

 fire quickens under the pot can you fully realise how 

 much air it has gathered in its frolicsome career. The 

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