A SPRING FISHING 27 



corner and pulled the rug higher across 

 my chest. 



Now we are swinging slowly downhill, 

 the landes behind us, overhead the stars, 

 only outlines are now visible. Here a 

 crucifix looms big at a cross-roads, and 

 farther the pine-tops, cut in black velvet 

 against the night. Scent and sound are 

 pregnant at a time like this. The smell 

 of leaf-mould, fir-needles, and resin are 

 pungent down the long avenue through 

 which we pass. The acrid flavour of peat 

 smoke meets us beyond. We have heard 

 for the last mile the constant bark of a 

 farm dog, now a turn in the road brings 

 us to the farm. We are only aware of it 

 by the square of light from a window. A 

 peasant's gruff voice calls into the night 

 and the dog ceases barking. We can hear 

 the rattle of his chain. Figures pass 

 silhouetted for a moment against the 

 square of light. Then the road makes 

 another turn, and we plunge down into 

 further woods. From near at hand comes 

 the sound of flowing water, an owl hoots, 

 and is answered faintly from far away. 

 The road leads on and on and on. . . . 



