i8o THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



was its message yesterday. The bog that never runs 

 dry has been overcharged and is sending down the 

 surplus like any pool. The combes are running, from 

 the last outpost mountain-ash. The bracken roots 

 cannot cope with what they have received, and the 

 improvident heather is shooting off the water it has 

 been longing for. The caddis-grubs have to fight for 

 it in a torrent that rolls stones as big as cricket-balls. 

 Loaches and bull-heads are unhoused, and must thank 

 their lucky stars that the clear water of their stream is 

 turned thick brown. No less grateful are we for this 

 slight circumstance that puts us on equal terms with 

 jthe trout. We have waited many days for the rain, 

 and it has come at last. 



