AT THE WEIR. 
'45 
towards the west and the curve being greater below than above 
the edge of the weir. It is very beautiful, this liquid quivering 
line of gold, and below, seen through the thick water glass, the 
cool streaming face of the weir. 
Above the fall very little movement is apparent on the 
surface of the water, it is glassy and still. The large coarse 
leaves of butterbur grow luxuriantly on the banks, and here 
and there is the beautiful heavenly blue of forget-me-nots. An 
ash on the farther bank has grown with four or five feet of its 
trunk stretched horizontally over the water ; the rest of the 
main stem leans so far across the stream that the topmost boughs 
almost overhang this bank Beyond this tree tower the mill 
buildings and warehouse — a hideous erection of flaring red brick 
— an incongruous eyesore amid its placid surroundings; more to 
the left is the dwelling house which, with true bucolic indifference 
to scenery, turns its back upon stream and weir, and faces the 
muddy level of a canal. 
The ash tree grows in a little croft, or rather orchard, for it 
has been recently planted with fruit trees. On the river bank 
there is a thin fringe of currant bushes, the red fruit glowing in 
the sun. When I was here two or three weeks ago the air was 
full of the scent of the hay which lay in “swathes” in this 
orchard. Now the grass is clear and the thunderstorms of the 
last ten days have already painted it a brilliant fresh green. 
Though this year’s grass crop may be light, the generality of 
farmers will have “ got ” their hay in the pink of condition and 
may look, too, for a good aftermath. 
1 am one of those for whom running water has a wonderful 
fascination. When I left the road and sat down on the plank I 
meant to rest for five minutes only ; I have sat here without 
stirring for more than an hour. When the eye has searched out 
and remarked every detail of the scene, the hundred beauties of 
the weir, the pool below, the ash tree and the orchard, it returns 
to dwell with quiet enjoyment on the swift-sliding water, the 
frothing foam and the dancing spray. The noise is not loud 
enough to stun the ear, though it would make conversation 
difficult if I had a companion. But I am alone and the voice of 
the fall needs no reply. And I still sit, while the shadows 
lengthen in the orchard and the north-west wind gradually 
drops and the still calm of evening draws on. 
This is a day of activity, a day of sight-seeing, from scenery 
to exhibitions. And yet for some of us the happiest hours are 
those spent as I have spent this golden July afternoon, steeping 
myself in the sensuous enjoyment of common-place mid-English 
stream and meadow. 
Arthur O. Cooke. 
