NOTES FROM A DIARY 123 



the interpretation of spirit. We may- 

 plaster a canvas with exact details, yet 

 fail to express a single truth. Painting, 

 when all is said and done, is but an 

 imperfect medium. The painter can 

 hand on so very little of his own concep- 

 tion. I fancy that a writer must be 

 faced with a like difficulty, for, as I turn 

 the pages of my old diary I find, between 

 the lines of ink, so much that is not 

 mentioned and meet so many friends who 

 are not even named. This diary contains 

 for me much more than a record of weights 

 of fish, of special flies, and certain condi- 

 tions of the water. It holds a subtle 

 intimacy. 



I see again the small sad fields of 

 Finistere detached by their high banks 

 and pollard-trees, their grazing kine 

 drafted in miniature, spotted black and 

 white, their little cowherds of blue short 

 petticoat and snowy coifFe, who knit in 

 the green shade of apple-trees. I hear 

 again the small sad songs they sing. 



I see the dusty gold haze above the 

 threshing-floor, the wooden flails beating 

 in unison, the priest's hands raised three 



