THE OLD CANAL 93 



with their jewel colours of opal and amethyst and 

 demon green. A ripple stealing out from the bank 

 marks a water-vole's progress, and watching the rat- 

 ways, patted smooth by many small paws, I hear 

 a crisp sound, note a wet-furred, bright-eyed thing 

 humped up on a grass-tuft, and see him nibble his 

 vegetable luncheon from the juicy green stems. He 

 catches my eye, is pained at the spectacle of me, 

 and hops into safety with a splash. He swims 

 away submerged, and will not rise again until within 

 the security of some hole whose entrance is under 

 water. 



Who shall tell or paint the beauty that these still 

 reaches waken and feed ? Who shall count the colours 

 of the June flowers that spangle the face of the canal 

 and adorn its banks ? Their numbers are bewil- 

 dering ; their shapes as varied as the twinkle of 

 sunbeams in the agate depths, where little arrows of 

 light play hide-and-seek under the surface. There 

 is dark green and golden green ; the silvery tones 

 of sallow, willow, and osier, the shining, fresh opu- 

 lence of young alders ; the upspringing foliage of 

 reed-mace, sedge, rush ; the quaint shapes of marsh 

 equisetum rising above the water ; the frog-bit's little 

 three-petalled blossoms, afloat in colonies ; the great 

 water-plantain's spear-like foliage surmounted by last 

 year's skeleton flower -stalks. These all are here, 

 with humbler things that fill each its place in 

 the woof of this most brilliant web. And on the 

 banks, rising above a mist of ripe grass and the 



