G8 NATUHE near LONDON. 



A LONDON TROUT. 



The sword-flags are rusting at their edges, and 

 their sharp points are turned. On the matted and 

 entangled sedges lie the scattered leaves which every 

 rush of the October wind hurries from the boughs. 

 Some fall on the w^ater and float slowly with the current, 

 brown and yellow spots on the dark surface. The 

 grey willows bend to the breeze ; soon the osier beds 

 will look reddish as the wands are stripped by the 

 gusts. Alone the thick polled alders remain green, 

 and in their shadow the brook is still darker. Through 

 a poplar's thin branches the wind sounds as in the 

 rigging of a ship ; for the rest, it is silence. 



The thrushes have not forgotten the frost of the 

 morning, and will not sing at noon ; the summer 

 visitors have flown, and the moorhens feed quietly. 

 The plantation by the brook is silent, for the sedges, 

 though they have drooped and become entangled, are 

 not dry and sapless yet to rustle loudly. They will 

 rustle dry enough next spring, when the sedge-birds 

 come. A long withey-bed borders the brook, and is 

 more resorted to by sedge-reedlings, or sedge-birds, 

 as they are variously called, than any place I know, 

 even in the remotest country. 



