52 AN ANGLER'S HOURS m 



shows that some spring is trickling down 

 through the moss towards the river. If a 

 man were to step unwarily into that little 

 patch of green he would sink in above his 

 knees, and possibly deeper. I know no 

 more sudden contrast anywhere : one is in 

 the midst of a scene of cultivation and the 

 work of men's hands ; one turns a corner, 

 and is suddenly face to face with the moor 

 rising hundreds of feet above. The moor ! 

 There is no word to describe it ; its fascina- 

 tion, for all who have fallen under its spell, 

 cannot be expressed by tongue or pen. A 

 man can only gaze and marvel. As a cloud 

 passes over the sun, and the purple slopes 

 grow dark and threatening, he looks hur- 

 riedly over his shoulder, expecting to see 

 a thunder-cloud coming up the valley, for 

 when the moor frowns there is but one 

 thing that can match it in awfulness, the 

 great steel-grey cloud that comes up against 

 the wind and rumbles in its path. But 

 there is no thunder-cloud there, and as he 

 turns round relieved the sun reappears and 

 he finds the moor smiling once more. Of 

 all colours purple is the most mysterious, 

 and here it is in its every shade, from the 



