A LONDON TROUT 



I, j i ^HE sword-flags are rusting at their edges, 

 and their sharp points are turned. On 

 the matted and entangled sedges lie 

 J \^ the scattered leaves which every rush 

 of the October wind hurries from the boughs. 

 Some fall on the water and float slowly with the 

 current, brown and yellow spots on the dark sur- 

 face. The grey willows bend to the breeze; soon 

 the osier beds will look reddish as the wands are 

 stripped by the gusts. Alone the thick polled 

 alders remain green, and in their shadow the brook 

 is still darker. Through a poplar's thin branches 

 the wind sounds as in the rigging of a ship ; for 

 the rest, it is silence. 



The thrushes have not forgotten the frost of the 

 morning, and will not sing at noon ; the summer 

 visitors have flown, and the moorhens feed quietly. 

 The plantation by the brook is silent, for the 

 sedges, though they have drooped and become en- 

 tangled, are not dry and sapless yet to rustle loudly. 

 They will rustle dry enough next spring, when the 

 sedge-birds come. A long withey-bed borders the 

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