SUMMER IN SOMERSET. 



The brown Barle River running over red rocks aslant 

 its course is pushed aside, and races round curving 

 slopes. The first shoot of the rapid is smooth and 

 polished like a gem by the lapidary's art, rounded and 

 smooth as a fragment of torso, and this convex undula- 

 tion maintains a solid outline. Then the following 

 scoop under is furrowed as if ploughed across, and the 

 ridge of each furrow, where the particles move a little 

 less swiftly than in the hollow of the groove, falls back- 

 wards as foam blown from a wave. At the foot of the 

 furrowed decline the current rises over a rock in a broad 

 white sheet — white because as it is dashed to pieces the 

 air mingles with it. After this furious haste the stream 

 does but just overtake those bubbles which have been 

 carried along on another division of the water flowing 

 steadily but straight. Sometimes there are two streams 

 like this between the same banks, sometimes three or 

 even more, each running at a different rate, and each 

 gliding above a floor differently inclined. The surface 

 of each of these streams slopes in a separate direction, 

 and though under the same light they reflect it at vary- 

 ing angles. The river is animated and alive, rushing 

 here, gliding there, foaming yonder ; its separate and 

 yet component parallels striving together, and talking 

 loudly in incomplete sentences. Those rivers that move 



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