t river pleased me best of all. Such a
medley of graceful, fragrant meadow-sweet, and tall, rough-leaved
willow-herbs with their lovely pink flowers. Light blue scorpion-grasses
and forget-me-nots were there too, not only among the sword-flags and
the tall fescue-grasses by the bank, but little islands of them dotted
about a over the brook. Thyme-scented water-mint, with lilac-tinted
spikes and downy stalks, was almost lost amongst the taller wild flowers
and the "segs" that fringed the brook-side.

There are no flowers like the wild ones; they last right through the
summer and autumn--yet we can never have enough of them, never cease
wondering at their marvellous delicacy and beauty.

Darting straight up stream on the wings of the soft south wind comes a
kingfisher clothed in priceless jewelry, sparkling in the sun: sapphire
and amethyst on his bright blue back, rubies on his ruddy breast, and
diamonds round his princely neck. Monarch he is of silvery stream, and
petty tyrant of the silvery fish.

I was told by a labourer that the trout ran from a quarter of a pound to
three pounds, and that they average one pound in weight; that in the
"may-fly" season a score of fish are often taken in the day by one rod,
and that the method of taking them is by the artificial fly, well dried
and deftly floated over feeding fish. These Cotswold streams are fed at
intervals of about half a mile by the most beautiful springs, and from
the rock comes pouring forth an everlasting supply of the purest and
clearest of water. I was shown such a spring in a withybed hard by the
old manor house. I saw nothing at first but a still, transparent pool,
nine feet deep (they told me); it looked but three! But as I gaze at the
beautiful fernlike weeds at the bottom, they are seen to be gently
fanned by the water that rises--never failing even in the hottest and
driest of summers--from the invisible rock below. The whole scene--the
silent pool at my feet, the rich, well-timbered valley, with its marked
contrast to the cold hills that overlook it--reminded me forcibly of
Whyte-Melville's lines at the conclusion of the most impressive poem he
ever wrote: "The Fairies' Spring":

"And sweet to the thirsting lips of men
Is the spring of tears in the fairies' glen."

Out of this fairy spring was taken quite recently, but not with the
"dry" fly--for no fish could be deceived in water of such stainless
transparency--a trout that weighed three