38 WOODLAND, MOOR, AND STREAM 



the water has undermined and the wind blown down. 

 On the opposite side of the river is moist meadow 

 land and alder copse ; from that cornfields reach to 

 the foot of Boxhill, and the range of hills which 

 runs the whole length of the beautiful Holmsdale 

 valley. 



The vapour is gently lifting from the water, and 

 the sun lights up the tops of the trees with the soft 

 golden light that belongs to early summer mornings 

 only. From the fine old avenue of lime trees which 

 run up to the ruins of the ivy-covered castle, comes 

 the cawing of rooks mingled with the sharp chatter 

 of jackdaws, and now and again the yikeing laugh 

 of the green woodpecker. Across the fields, floating 

 along like a lump of thistledown, comes the barn-owl 

 on his way home to some nook in the ruins. Often, 

 in the days gone by, the pilgrims on their way to the 

 tomb of Thomas a Becket must have paused, on the 

 track at the foot of the hills which still bears their 

 name to look over that glorious stretch of wood- 

 lands. 



The wheel is not yet going. There is a trickle 

 of water from the sluice, which is just what I require. 

 Baiting the line with a well-scoured dew-worm, I 

 gently drop it over some piles that have been driven 

 in to keep a portion of the gravelly bank from being 



