252 THE Dl\RYL IN MAY. 



calls a score of voices as sweet as his own join 

 in the concert, and the choir of birds break in 

 from bush and briar as if they had not. the 

 livelong* day to spend in discussing the music 

 no man has taught them. From the base of 

 a dead moated grange, with sightless windows, 

 a long-legged heron flaps lazily into flight, 

 giving a sort of chilly cough as he takes his 

 departure for a feast of small fry in the mill 

 beck. Listen keenly for a moment, and be- 

 tween the matin chorus of the birds, the 

 dreamy murmurs of the river, the weird whis- 

 pering of the reeds, touched by the passing 

 wings of the wind, you can* hear the great sea 

 rolling and booming on the sands, and looking 

 afar off behold the shining plain of the ocean, 

 and the thin phantom image of a steamer 

 sailing on the verge, and becoming dimmer 

 and dimmer every moment. 



This is my first day for the season with the 

 rod. I make a chair of a fishing basket, and 

 take out the flybook, lighting a cigar to as- 

 sist judgment to a lucky decision on the point 

 of a wren's tail or hare's ear. 



How little a river changes, and how much 



