IT is a cool day in July, and the shaded sunlight slowly steals and
disappears over the landscape. There are none of those sudden flashes
which come when the clouds are more sharply defined and the blue is more
intense. I have wandered from the uplands down to the river. The fields
are cleared of the hay, and the bright green of the newly mown grass
increases the darkness of the massive foliage of the bordering elms. The
cows are feeding in the rich level meadows and now and then come to the
river to drink. It is overhung with alders, and two or three stand on
separate little islands held together by roots. The winter floods biting
into the banks have cut miniature cliffs, and at their base grow the
forget-me-not, the willow-herb, and flowering rush. A brightly-plumaged
bird, too swift to be recognised—could it be a kingfisher?—darts along
the margin of the stream and disappears in its black shadows. The wind
blows gently from the west: it is just strong enough to show the silver
sides of the willow leaves. The sound of the weir, although so soft, is
able to exclude the clacking of the mill and all intermittent, casual
noises. For two hours it has filled my ears and brought a deeper repose
than that of mere silence. It is not uniform, for the voices of
innumerable descending threads of water with varying impulses can be
distinguished, but it is a unity. Myriads of bubbles rise from the
leaping foam at the bottom, float away for a few yards and then break.
It is the very summit of the year, the brief poise of perfection. In two
or three weeks the days will be noticeably shorter, the harvest will
begin, and we shall be on our way downwards to autumn, to dying leaves
and to winter.