A MAY IDYL. 



THE DARYL IN MAY. 



BY A TROUT ANGLER. 



HERE is an old grey bridge crossing the stream 

 Daryl about a mile above the tideway. 

 Though so near the coast the sea-water does 

 not flow to this point, for the main current 

 goes to meet the Avonbeg. It is a bright 

 cheery morning in May. The air is full of 

 the spring, the keen fresh spirit of growing and 

 budding is in the atmosphere, and makes the 

 tender, lucent leaves shiver on the trees down 

 there in the meadow. The fields are silent and 

 deserted. Folding from them is a white vapour 

 which steals off and climbs the steep hills crowned 

 with Irish fir. On a sudden the clear note of 

 the lark is heard in the sky, and as he calls and 



