SUMMER IN SOMERSET. 26^ 



each inclined at a different angle, each casting a tre- 

 mulous flash into the face. The eyelids involuntarily 

 droop to shield the gaze from a hundred arrows ; they 

 are too strong — nothing can be distinguished but a 

 woven surface of brilliance, a mesh of light, under 

 which the water runs, itself invisible. I will go back to 

 the deep green pool, and walking now with the sun 

 behind, how the river has changed ! 



Soft, cool shadows reach over it, which I did not see 

 before ; green surfaces are calm under trees ; the rocks 

 are less hard ; the stream runs more gently, and the 

 oaks come down nearer ; the delicious sound of the 

 rushing water almost quenches my thirst. My eyes 

 have less work to do to meet the changing features of 

 the current which now seems smooth as my glance 

 accompanies its movement. The sky, which was not 

 noticed before, now appears reaching in rich azure 

 across the deep hollow, from the oaks on one side to 

 the oaks on the other. These woods, which cover the 

 steep and rocky walls of the gorge from river to summit, 

 are filled with the June colour of oak. It is not green, 

 nor russet, nor yellow ; I think it may be called a glow 

 of yellow under green. It is warmer than green ; the 

 glow is not on the outer leaves, but comes up beneath 

 from the depth of the branches. The rush of the river 

 soothes the mind, the broad descending surfaces of 

 yellow-green oak carry the glance downwards from the 

 blue over to the stream in the hollow. Rush ! rush ! — 

 it is the river, like a mighty wind in the wood. A 

 pheasant crows, and once and again falls the tap, tap of 

 woodmen's axes — scarce heard, for they are high above. 

 They strip the young oaks of their bark as far as they 

 can while the saplings stand, then fell them, and as they 

 all lie downhill there are parallel streaks of buff (where 



