hes on either hand festooned with
gossamer and strung with mimic diamonds. As he looked harbourwards,
the radiance of sky mingling with the glitter of water dazzled and
bewildered his sight: below, and at the foot of the steep woods
opposite, the river lay cool and shadowy, or vanished for a space
beneath a cliff, where the red plough-land broke abruptly away with
no more warning than a crazy hurdle. Distinct above the dreamy hum
of the little town, the ear caught the rattle of anchor-chains, the
cries of an outward-bound crew at the windlass, the clanking of
trucks beside the jetties; the creaking of oars in the thole-pins of
a tiny boat below ascended musically; the very air was quick with all
sounds and suggestions of spring, and of man going forth to his
labour; the youthfulness of the morning ran in Mr. Fogo's veins, and
lent a buoyancy to his step.

By this time the town was lost to view; next, the bend of Kit's House
vanished, and now the broad flood spread in a silver lake full ahead.
On the ridge the pure air was simply intoxicating after the languor
of the valley. Mr. Fogo began to skip, to snap his fingers, to tilt
at the gossamer with his umbrella, and once even halted to laugh
hilariously at nothing. An old horse grazing on an isolated patch of
turf looked up in mild surprise; Mr. Fogo blushed behind his
spectacles and hurried on.

He had gone some distance when a granite roller lying on the ploughed
slope beneath a clump of bushes invited him to rest. Mr. Fogo
accepted the invitation, and seated himself to contemplate the scene.
The bush at his back was comfortable, and by degrees the bright
intoxication of his senses settled to a drowsy content. He pulled
out his pipe and lit it. Through the curls of blue smoke he watched
the glitter on the water below, the prismatic dazzle of the clods
where their glossy surface caught the sun, the lazy flap-flap of a
heron crossing the valley, and he heard along the uplands the voice
(sweetest of rural sounds, and, alas! now obsolete) of a farm-boy
chanting to his team, "Brisk and Speedwell, Goodluck and Lively"--and
so sank by degrees into a soothing sleep.

When he awoke and looked lazily upwards, at first his eyes
encountered gloom. "Have I been sleeping all day?" was his first
thought, not without alarm. But under the darkness a bright ray was
stealing. Mr. Fogo put up his hand and encountered his umbrella,
carefully spread over his face for shade.