88 WOODLANDERS AND FIELD FOLK 



As I proceed, a splash comes from the river, and 

 some large-winged fly has been sucked under. The 

 night food comes on, and the " reach " boils. Water- 

 rats, voles, and shrews are busy among the stones 

 searching for insect larvae, or gnawing the stalks of 

 water-plants. The peculiarly lonesome wail of the 

 summer-snipe comes down stream, and a teal stretches 

 her long neck low over the land. The river here 

 resolves itself nearly into a gorge, and runs darkly 

 deep betwixt shelving rocks. The water ceaselessly 

 moans and chafes down there in the darkness. As I 

 watch, a salmon, fresh from the sea, leaps from the 

 silvery foam and flashes in the moonlight. Still I 

 follow on. Mice rustle away, and a hedgehog comes 

 to the pool to drink. One of his species I saw just 

 now taken in the keeper's trap, the latter baited 

 with a pheasant's egg. The squeal of a foumart 

 comes from the loose stones; later he will feed on the 

 frogs now croaking from the ditch; these he kills 

 by piercing their skulls. 



The rising stars, the low-hanging moon, the still 

 night, the dark woods! And now comes the voice 

 of the bird whose song is so thrilling, so beautiful a 

 mystery the nightingale! 



" Listen, 



How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves ! 

 Again thou nearest ? 

 Eternal passion ! 

 Eternal pain ! " 



