From Fox's Earth 



There are rifts in the lute, jars in the melody ; 

 but only few, and not characteristic. The stream 

 strikes against some jutting spur and swirls round 

 in a false curve, or at some too sudden bend 

 cuts into the bank, forming a false eddy. Beyond, 

 the stream is itself again, to pass on in a long 

 succession of pool and current. 



The pools have names. Names do not grow 

 in a day. The oldest inhabitant was not at the 

 christening ; nor in the oldest tradition, as far as 

 I know, is any account of the origin. These 

 names are used by Tweedside men when they 

 meet on the far side of the globe and exchange 

 fishing experiences, not necessarily apocryphal. 

 They do not lie, at least to one another ; they 

 are too seasoned for that. And leave boasting 

 to beardless boys, who soon acquire the reserve 

 of their elders. As a St. Andrews man with 

 a cleek, so each is born with a rod in his hand. 

 Their stories they tell with a certain grim 

 humour to strangers. The exact moral com- 

 plexion is best shown by an example, which will 

 find its way in by and by. 



Of one pool I have delightful memories. 

 Through many a border twilight, and far into the 

 mystic border night have I lingered there, The 

 hills come very close, to lend a deeper shadow to 

 the summer dark. Along the face of the protrud- 

 ing spur the stream flows straight and still. The 

 road overhangs. Where the spur curves back 



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