A LONDON TROUT 



willow stole, and as he flies begins to chatter when 

 half-way across, and finishes on a fresh branch. 



But long before this another bird has commenced 

 to sing in a bush adjacent ; a third takes it up in 

 the thorn hedge; a fourth in the bushes across the 

 pond; and from farther down the stream comes a 

 faint and distant chatter. Ceaselessly the compet- 

 ing gossip goes on the entire day and most of the 

 night ; indeed sometimes all night through. On a 

 warm spring morning, when the sunshine pours 

 upon the willows, and even the white dust of the 

 road is brighter, bringing out the shadows in clear 

 definition, their lively notes and quick motions 

 make a pleasant commentary on the low sound of 

 the stream rolling round the curve. 



A moorhen's call comes from the hatch. Broad 

 yellow petals of marsh-marigold stand up high 

 among the sedges rising from the greyish-green 

 ground, which is covered with a film of sun-dried 

 aquatic grass left dry by the retiring waters. Here 

 and there are lilac-tinted cuckoo-flowers, drawn 

 up on taller stalks than those that grow in the 

 meadows. The black flowers of the sedges are 

 powdered with yellow pollen ; and dark green 

 sword-flags are beginning to spread their fans. 

 But just across the road, on the topmost twigs of 

 birch poles, swallows twitter in the tenderest tones 

 to their loves. From the oaks in the meadows on 



