To Mountain Tarn 



quickens into a lively flow, tempered by the 

 shadows in the hollows. Slowly, very slowly, 

 it softens into pools, and the last low murmurs 

 pass out of hearing. At the line of seeming 

 stillness which yet is not still, the pool breaks 

 into ghostly ripples, deepening to the line of 

 motion across the height of the current. 



Some unerring hand might have moulded all 

 this, so faultless in its balance. Some exquisite 

 soul might have set the flow to such rhythm. 

 Among Scots streams it stands first. After the 

 Tweed all seem unbalanced and out of tune. A 

 bar here and there, a perfect note breaking forth, 

 current gathering into pool, or, it may be, a stretch 

 where pool and current alternate. Some graceful 

 sweep which charms the eye and leads it onward. 

 And then a break, a jar, a rude rush, or long 

 pause. Ripple without music, and stillness with- 

 out poetry. 



Rings chase the pool into the last touch of 

 charm. So trout may be regarded less as some- 

 thing to fish for than as artists of the stream. 

 From the centre of the widening circles they sink 

 back into the restfulness of the pool. I have 

 lain on the green haughs and watched them at 

 their purposeful play, while the moments flew by 

 unheeded. So long as the aesthetic sense kept 

 awake was no thought of blood ; the savage was 

 asleep. That, too, is a mood sacred to the 

 Tweed. 



107 



