To Mountain Tarn 



" Besides you are too early. I never come out 

 till eleven. Last night, I had a dozen trout 

 between that and twelve." An hour ahead, and 

 no promise of dark even then. The sun would 

 never get into the shadow on this midsummer 

 eve. Day would waken in the east. The dawn 

 would kiss the setting. 



A light is on the stream as I pass down, or so 

 much of it as is not under the shadow of the far 

 bank. The restless lapwing screams as he dips 

 from his flight into the dimness of the meadow. 

 If the action is meant to lead away from the nest, 

 he must be stupid indeed to keep it up in the 

 dark. It is hard to tell when he goes to bed and 

 leaves the corncrake in possession, or which of 

 the night calls is the less musical. A dimmer 

 saffron tops the darker purple of the ridge, and 

 passes to the zenith in a pink, flushed, pearl grey. 

 Eleven o'clock rings from the distant steeple. 

 My friend will be bringing out his rod, with the 

 grouse and claret fly, for the night fishing. 



The faintest vibration of sound, as from low 

 water bells, tells of the trout rising in the narrow 

 channel. On the crowfoot, lit up with its silver 

 lamps, something moves and puts out light after 

 light. The splash of the older voles comes at 

 intervals, and the dark form crosses the breaking 

 rings to reach the further bank. 



