THE TROUT. 139 



Barle, the Exe, in the far land of the West, the land of 

 red cattle and clotted cream, of junkets and cider, of 

 meadows and moorland, of hills and dales and purling 

 streams, the very paradise of birds, ferns, and wild flowers. 

 I know these Devonshire rivers well, I may say every 

 stream in the country ; and the humblest meadow brook 

 is not without its charms, or without its trout. Such a 

 humble brook has Carl Waring recently described in the 

 American Forest and Stream, in the following pretty 

 stanzas : — 



" You see it first near the dusty road, 

 "Where the farmer stops with his heavy load 



At the foot of a weary hill ; 

 There the mossy trough it overflows, 

 Then away with a leap and a laugh it goes 



At its own sweet, wandering will. 



" It flows through an orchard gnarl'd and old, 

 Where in spring the dainty buds unfold 



Their petals pink and white ; 

 The apple blossoms so sweet and pure, 

 The streamlet's smiles and songs allure, 



To float off on the ripples bright. 



" It winds through the meadow scarcely seen, 

 For o'er it the flowers and grasses lean 



To salute its smiling face ; 

 And thus, half-hidden, it ripples along, 

 The whole way singing its summer song, 

 Making glad each arid place, 



" Just there, where the water dark and cool 

 Lingers a moment in yonder pool, 



The dainty trout are at play ; 

 And now and then one leaps in sight, 

 With sides aglow in the golden light 



Of the long, sweet summer day. 



