IN THE SEASON OF MISTS. 53 



Kisses the. blushing leaf, and stirs up life 

 Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, 

 And silver beech, and maple yelloiu -leafed, 

 Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 

 By the wayside aioeary. . . . 



Then there were the days when Thymallus took our flies boldly, 

 and we could do nothing amiss. Joie de vivve rilled us when, on 

 those occasions, we landed grayling after grayling, and our creel 

 hung heavily about our shoulders, what time the stream's perennial 

 song sounded sweetly in our ears. But those were the days that 

 were few and far between. . . . 



Verily is the season of mists a great and glorious festival, and 

 the " Lady of the Streams " its fitting deity. 



