An Irishman sitting angling on the brink with an alder pole and a
clothes-line. At frequent intervals, the scene is suddenly broken by a
loud report like thunder, rolling along the banks, echoing and
reverberating afar. It is a blast of rocks. Along the margin, sometimes
sticks of timber made fast, either separately or several together; stones
of some size, varying the pebbles and sand; a clayey spot, where a
shallow brook runs into the river, not with a deep outlet, but finding
its way across the bank in two or three single runlets. Looking upward
into the deep glen whence it issues, you see its shady current.
Elsewhere, a high acclivity, with the beach between it and the river, the
ridge broken and caved away, so that the earth looks fresh and yellow,
and is penetrated by the nests of birds. An old, shining tree-trunk,
half in and half out of the water. An island of gravel, long and narrow,
in the centre of the river. Chips, blocks of wood, slabs, and other
scraps of lumber, strewed along the beach; logs drifting down. The high
bank covered with various trees and shrubbery, and, in one place, two or
three Irish shanties.
Pages:
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82