THE VALLEY OF PEACE. 47 



hour " with the dace at sundown, and of the displays of our united 

 catches if we retained our fish to distribute among the rustics 

 are memories that neither years will dim nor future experiences 

 detract from their sweetness. But the various members of our 

 party have since become scattered far and wide, and I alone fre- 

 quent the old familiar spots. 



Of late years I have had the company of old friend H., and 

 happy are the times we have spent together by the riverside, and 

 great are the comforts and attentions we have received at the 

 cottage of the ex-'Varsity cricket coach, and at the little inn, with 

 its spotless floors, its clean, white tables and its rows of shining 

 tankards. 



We watch the pageantry of the year rise to the height of its 

 splendour, and fall towards the depth of its decay. We hear the 

 weakened springtime chorus of the birds grew fainter and fainter, 

 until it is a chorus no longer. The hay is cut, and " made," and 

 gathered in. The wheat ripens to gold under the August sun. The 

 reapers come ; the fields are all studded with stocks ; the wain 

 rumbles home to the stackyard with its last load ; and, in the 

 gloaming, the partridge calls across the stubble. The days 

 shorten and the nights become colder ; the harvest moon waxes and 

 wanes. Martins and swallows congregate and prepare to follow in 

 the wake of the swifts ; and lapwings and starlings gather in 

 flocks. 



So summer passes, and our halcyon days fade into pleasant 

 memories. 



