YOUNG TAMAR 



E STING in the grass, waiting for the trout 

 to rise, my face is little higher than the 

 meadows, and but for a sudden bend in 

 the bank and a gentle whisper in the air, 

 one would not guess at the propinquity of a river. 

 Here, however, Tamar flows, the mother of all this 

 beauty, a stream of slow and stately passage, moving 

 forward through meadows and daisy-dotted pastures, 

 between banks of many -coloured clay — clay of all 

 shades from bright amber beneath the water, to silver 

 above it. 



Thus Tamar wins her personal charm, for a clay 

 stream she is, and from her cradle receives a delicate 

 and mellow tone that becomes almost opaque in the 

 deep pools and hovers, shines like liquid gold where 

 sunlight pierces the forest shadows, and thins to a 

 delicate and milky tinge where the river slides over 

 shallows or mossy weirs. 



A stream of many moods is she, with fresh charms at 

 every bend and turn; not the least backwater or tinkling 

 fall but delights in its particular ornature and distinction. 

 Where the river shines along straight reaches, the 

 banks tell the progress of Summer and the shrinking 



