150 FRESH FIELDS 



it rested. Then it would trip along the margin of 

 the pool, or flit a few feet over its surface, and 

 suddenly, as if it had burst like a bubble, vanish 

 before my eyes; there would be a little splash of 

 the water beneath where I saw it, as if the drop of 

 which it was composed had reunited with the sur- 

 face there. Then, in a moment or two, it would 

 emerge from the water and take up its stand as dry 

 and unruffled as ever. It was always amusing 

 to see this plump little bird, so unlike a water-fowl 

 in shape and manner, disappear in the stream. It 

 did not seem to dive, but simply dropped into the 

 water, as if its wings had suddenly failed it. Some- 

 times it fairly tumbled in from its perch. It was 

 gone from sight in a twinkling, and, while you 

 were wondering how it could accomplish the feat of 

 walking on the bottom of the stream under there, 

 it reappeared as unconcerned as possible. It is a 

 song-bird, a thrush, and gives a feature to these 

 mountain streams and waterfalls which ours, except 

 on the Pacific coast, entirely lack. The stream 

 that winds through Grasmere vale, and flows against 

 the embankment of the churchyard, as the Avon at 

 Stratford, is of great beauty, — clean, bright, full, 

 trouty, with just a tinge of gypsy blood in its veins, 

 which it gets from the black tarns on the moun- 

 tains, and which adds to its richness of color. I 

 saw an angler take a few trout from it, in a meadow 

 near the village. After a heavy rain the stream 

 was not roily, but slightly darker in hue; these 

 fields and mountains are so turf-bound that no par- 

 ticle of soil is carried away by the water. 



