THE OLD CANAL 95 



gleaming on their gauzes, and woke ruby and emerald 

 lights in their wonderful eyes. 



Birds haunt the old canal, and pheasants drink 

 from it at evening time, where it winds through silent 

 coppice and spinny ; while wood-pigeons, surprised 

 from their sob and croon in lofty firs, start suddenly 

 upward and away, with a rush and hurtle of wings. 



The environment varies from frame of meadows 

 and tilled land to the inner depths and mysteries 

 of dark woods and deserted wastes. Here, where I 

 set down this chronicle, reflections of charlock lighted 

 the canal face from acres of green corn on the bosom 

 of a hill ; and beyond the young grain, grass lands 

 arose to wind-blown elms about a crocketed church 

 tower. Elsewhere, seen clear against the blue, grey 

 roofs of slated farms extended westward, with warm 

 tones of ancient stacks that stood above the ripple of 

 hay now ready for the cutting. And followed further, 

 the old canal wound into copses and jungles of trees 

 — pine and oak, ash and tall cherry — where fell much 

 play of chequered light and battle of sunbeams that 

 winnowed their ways to the water. 



The music of the hour was also sweet. Remote 

 drone of rooks and young rooks made the bass of it, 

 and against this background of sustained sound were 

 set the bleat of sheep and lambs, the songs of black- 

 birds and larks and chaffinches, the shrieks of robber 

 jays, the sibilation of a grasshopper-warbler near his 

 hidden home, the tinkle of a wren's little lay, the 

 castanets of a magpie, who with much rattle of speech 



