From Fox's Earth 



There are conditions under which the stream 

 changes its character, and a new interest is 

 awakened in the long, still, shaded pools and 

 sluggish currents. The water oozes out of sight 

 through hidden aisles among the sedges, making 

 its own music as it flows. The alder looks down 

 at its likeness in a span of sunless water. The 

 roots of the great white willow groin in shaded 

 galleries to dark retreats. Rude islets break the 

 channel in twain. By the mill and mills have a 

 knack of picking out the most picturesque and 

 strongest parts of a stream the lade surges forth 

 into a fretted pool, for the great trout to lie in 

 wait. 



From a smoothly flowing poem of idyllic charm 

 the scene becomes instinct with the possibilities of 

 drama. No longer a drowsy trout stream, it is 

 the haunt of the otter. The low murmur is 

 broken by a bell-like cry. The loiterer pricks up 

 his ears. The bay of the hounds makes all the 

 difference. 



On a day in July the music was heard of the 

 anglers who were out. It was an exciting day, 

 with incidents worth recording. I was absent, 

 but write from the tale of those who were there. 

 By and by I shall tell of other days when I was 

 abroad with the rest. 



For a while the Eden was at its rudest. The 

 hounds got on a darg, and for well-nigh an hour 

 dusted the quarry over an islet. The spectators 



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