VII 

 HAUNT OF THE WATER VOLE 



i 



mill wheel has ceased to beat for 

 the day. Swifts are screaming over- 

 head, and sweeping round in their 

 evening play, as though they were 

 near home and had some interest in the dusty 

 rafters. Next to an old castle, the swifts form 

 part of the summer picture of a waterside meal 

 mill. Swallows pass in and out of the door of a 

 low shed, in tireless waiting on an impatient 

 brood under the red slates. 



With a restless stillness, midway between 

 motion and quiet, the lade oozes on, confusing 

 the eye that looks too long, and making the head 

 reel. It is not a flow the angler loves : it lacks 

 variety and play. Water-plants root in the 

 muddy bottom, and spread over the still surface. 

 In serried ranks they stand out from either bank. 

 So near in some places is their approach, that 

 scarce two yards of clear flow are left. Detached 

 islets float in the centre. The dull brown of the 

 pond weed is relieved by the green leaves, 



80 



