To Mountain Tarn 



autumn morning differs from another. Typical 

 of September, both were woven of filmy threads 

 to like delightful issues. Low down on the 

 eastern horizon, a crimson haze told of the lately 

 risen sun. A cool moist touch was in the still 

 air. More than half the sky was mackerel-scaled, 

 hinting at a possible freshening as the day went 

 on. The grey of the stubble passed into the 

 purple-shadowed ridge to the south. The north- 

 ern sky was of a cold forget-me-not blue, and 

 over the pasture was a grey-blue light, with a 

 touch of the pearl of dawn. 



Far down, in the broader reaches of the stream, 

 by tidal waters, common to the otter and the 

 seal, was the start. Though passing from the 

 richly-wooded inland to the treeless and sandy 

 estuary, the scene had attraction of its own. We 

 dropped down through the pasture field, with the 

 eager hounds on in front, under the eye of master 

 and huntsman. The course of the stream might 

 be traced, on either hand, in a sinuous line, 

 marked by the bank-enriching waters, somewhat 

 checked, perhaps, by the kiss of the tide. 



Working men were spending the week end 

 Monday being a holiday with the rod. Four 

 full-grown fishers, and among them but a little 

 tent. Questioned as to how they managed to sleep, 

 where was only room enough for one "One at a 

 time/' was the answer. The stockinged legs of 

 the man in possession protruded from the open- 



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