THE DARYL IN MAY. 259 



cave. Yes, this river has an underground 

 course for half a mile. Put your ear to the 

 ground a hundred yards from its departure 

 into the dark, and you might hear it, as it 

 were, contending with angry, uncanny things, 

 more uncomely than even the blind, ugly 

 fish, that are supposed to dwell in the 

 black waters. But the Daryl bursts into 

 an open meadow outside the wood with a 

 positive roar of relief and triumph. It 

 takes a header over a rock, and plunges 

 merrily along, only staying to clasp and 

 kiss a few ancient weir-stakes beneath Croom 

 Castle. 



The evening is drawing near. The rod is 

 unshipped; the basket freshly strewn with 

 flowers, loaded as it is with trout to the brim. 

 The crows are calling from brown furrowed 

 marshes ; there is a red flame in the west, but 

 the lark still sings as if the day was young. 

 The air is cool and feels damp. From the 

 road we can see the winding Daryl, turned, 

 as the poet says, to blood with the miracle 

 beams of the great high priest, the sun. By 

 the time we reach the bridge, where we started, 



s 2 



