From Fox's Earth 



sun beats straight down, when the wind is hushed 

 and the air pants, fishing is impossible. One is 

 fain to rest and watch the afternoon shadows 

 growing on the water. There is a strangeness 

 there also. The sharpness of outline one looks 

 for in the hot dry July air of these upland regions 

 is absent. In its place is the indefiniteness of 

 moister conditions. The tarn has taken possession 

 of the hills, to make them differ from other hills : 

 how, will appear anon. The shadows lengthen 

 over the surface. And with the coming of evening, 

 should a spirit pass, something may happen 

 that is if the breeze strike not the water too 

 far out. 



A rise after long casting makes one eager and 

 forgetful. A second makes one oblivious to all 

 save the coming third. With a strike the hills 

 vanish, and all else save the hooked and landed 

 fish. Meantime, the moisture which has risen 

 invisible in the midday heat to soften the after- 

 noon outlines comes down in visible chilling 

 mist. The horizon of water creeps in, till no 

 wider than the length of a cast. The slopes 

 around are blotted out, the glen beneath is cut 

 off. The sense of feeling oneself thus trapped 

 for the first time in these rude parts comes back. 

 One were lost, save for the tail stream, whose 

 downward course leads beyond the mist till the 

 valley opens up with its silver thread of Esk. 

 Through the mist comes the light rattle of 



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