There is a gentle continuous whispering among the reeds, as if they questioned themselves, with quiet disapprobation, why the river was always in such a hurry. From the field behind the hedge comes the sweet scream of a wheeling peewit, and two large wood-pigeons flap noisily from the tall trees on the island, a very picture of contented domesticity.
We slide on gently, close by the tow-path, until the tall hedge comes to an end, and the green meadows stretch right away from the lip of the river, and around them rise the tree-crowned heights in a semicircle, like the tiers of a giant amphitheatre.
Flop! A water rat dives furtively. Though called a rat, he is in reality a vole, and is almost exclusively graminivorous; in this differing from his namesake, the real rat, which also haunts river banks, especially near mills. With hoarse squawk, a wild duck rises heavily from cover, and after the first difficult spiral, wings off like an arrow, his long neck extended. It is a day of cloud and shadow, and suddenly the light breaks out on the trees ahead with a wild freshness that makes one catch one's breath. It races up stream, and the dun is turned to gold at the touch of its breath. The sweetness of early spring is in the air and in our blood; the larks feel it as they rise:
Sounds of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
—Shelley.
And there is a stirring of sap and juice in things—small things deep down in dark holes and corners, and in all green and growing things.