MY BRIDGE OF DREAMS. 3 



Although the little bridge is dear to me chiefly on account of 

 the memories it awakens, nevertheless, whilst I lean upon its mossy 

 parapet, there is much to interest and provide me with entertain- 

 ment. Each token of Nature's wondrous processes, or man's pur- 

 poseful handiwork, bears a significant message. I note the purple 

 sheen spreading over the leafless hedgrows ; also the whitish marks 

 that stand out conspicuously upon the withy trunks, showing where 

 slim boughs recently overhung the stream. For, when some sturdy 

 yokel is lopping the willows that flourish in the water-meads, I know 

 that preparations for the opening of the trout-season are proceed- 

 ing apace. And, before many days are over, all those boughs likely 

 to impede the angler's efforts will have been removed, so that, some 

 little time hence, the lord of the manor and his guests may cast a 

 fly upon the streamlet without undue hindrance. 



A short distance away, at the three lane-ends, stands a row of 

 tall elms where dwells a colony of noisy rooks. Doubtless the rook- 

 ery has existed from time immemorial ; a place of corvine clamour 

 from, say, Candlemas to All Hallow's Eve, or even Martinmas. In- 

 harmonious yet indispensable is the music of the rookery ; how 

 sadly would it be missed were it to cease for ever ! How strange a 

 spot would then be my Bridge of Dreams ! Happily, however, year 

 in, year out, let but winter relax its severity, even if only for a 

 while, and the birds resort to the trees and busy themselves in re- 

 pairing the storm-battered nests. Scanty respect indeed is paid to 

 the ancient tradition of St. Valentine's Day, for many of the rooks 

 mated months ago, and now, in the first warm sunlight of the new 

 year, they perch above their old homes and, with much ado, assert 

 their right of possession. Hence, from the majestic elms, a raucous 

 uproar arises, the harshness of which is mitigated when one remem- 

 bers that this bucolic discord is synchronous with the dawning of 

 the spring. 



If, in March, the weather be genial, the song of the great tit 

 and the twitter of the yellow-hammer are heard, whilst the skylark 

 gives thanks with a full heart, and, at eventide, the rapturous melo- 

 dies of thrush and blackbird ring throughout the valley. 



