CORRESPONDENCE.
17P THE FEEDER.
CONGLETON Cloud, standing out grey-blue against a clear distance of September sky, seemed to beckon us from our hills and valleys to the plains of Cheshire ; but we turned off the road, and crossing two stone stiles and a narrow meadow, found ourselves on the bank of that strange little water which leaves the river Dane half-way up its valley, and flows lower down, as a feeder, into Rudyard Lake. The " feeder " appears at first very like a ditch,—a ditch of green grass, which lies in long swaths, hardly covered by water. It is a "disenchanted brook," like the classic river Almo, which we have lately seen described as "little better than a ditch, with artificial banks - overgrown with weeds
and with a little dirty water in it from the drainings of the sruTounding vineyards." The feeder has no claim to be classic; its name is enough ; it is only sixty years old, and has not been celebrated by any modern Ovid or Cicero; yet if one sets to work to describe it, the description sounds very like that of the Almo.
The course of the feeder is half-way up the side of the valley, a situation in which one does not expect to meet with running water. From the path along its bank, one looks up to wooded hills and rocky places, and down into the green velvet pastures of the valley through which flows the Dane, parallel with its odd little offspring, and on a very much lower level. This was at first a puzzle to the unreasoning mind, ignorant of the country. The river down there, the feeder up here ; how one could flow out of the other was something of a mystery.
The feeder is solitary; mankind appears to take little interest in it; yet no doubt, when it was made, people thought it a very fine thing. Otherwise they would not have built such solid stone bridges over it at short intervals, bridges which suggest a very different character of stream from that which now creeps loiteringly under them. But perhaps there may be seasons when the Dane rushes down a headlong torrent from his hills, and spends his superfluous energy on the feeder. Certain mud-marks on the banks, on the long grass and weeds and rushes, bear witness to something of this kind.
The feeder is solitary ; a white duck, sitting alone among the rushes with three grey ducklings, turned her head in surprise and alarm as we walked past ; her black eye glittered, but she did not stir from her place. She is probably there still; at least, she was there when we came down again. Further on, a cow had climbed up the steep grass bank from her companions in the valley, and stood placidly on the narrow path, finding it quite unnecessary, with a shocking tameness, to let animals of a higher kind pass by.
Down below, the meadows were emerald green; the course of the Dane was hidden by trees ; beyond it the woods came down in soft, dark, dignified sweeps, with gentle shadows On the lawns that lay under and between them. It was like some beautiful, well-tended park. All lonely, and on that side not even any cows. On our side of the valley, below where we were walking, a covey of birds rose suddenly, and a few minutes later a solitary sportsman came out of the wood, and slowly crossed the lawn. But no shot roused the echoes of the valley while we were there.
As we wandered on, leaving Congleton Cloud far behind us, and coming into view of the wild hills at the head of the valley, miles away, blue with the blue of a north-east wind which came whistling down, everything became intensified somehow in the deepening light and colour of the afternoon. 'The valley grew narrower, its sides grew steeper, the trees and bushes seemed more luxuriant; the feeder itself became more interesting, with its curious crop of mares'-tails, and feathery grasses growing on the brink. One of the bridges, its rugged stones hung with ivy, looked two hundred years old. The feeder still kept the same level, high above the Dane, which ran down below through the lessening meadows, its course here hidden by the trees and bushes on its bank. Beyond it, a really beautiful wood covered the shelving side of the valley. 'The trees were chiefly oak, hardly yet beginning to change colour ; but among them grew great Scotch firs, the blue bloom on their dark foliage giving a wonderful soft richness to the whole.
Not much further on, still keeping to the path beside the feeder, we realised that the level of the valley was a different thing ; the Dane and his child were not so far apart now. Further on still, and the valley grew narrower, steeper, wilder; the river was becoming a mountain stream ; we could see it rushing and hurrying down, foaming round its great brown stones, with quite an air of Wales. And then, on the other aide of the feeder, the hill broke into a great mass of yellow rock, looking out among what was still a crowd of trees. They grew along the Dane bank, too, on each side; the hill fell now to his right bank so steep and sudden and tall, with all the varied grace and colour of beech, oak, sycamore, fir, silver birches in their beauty, and here and there a rowan- tree, that a comparison rose in our minds. It may sound a very ambitious and even an absurd one ; but one always thinks there must be some likeness between two things—or people— if they remind one of each other. And as we stood there, we went suddenly away to Italian Switzerland, and thought of the Val Verzasca.
The valley turns as it goes on, and in this part of it the distant hills are almost hidden by trees and high ground. We still strolled along on the right bank of the feeder ; a sociable donkey, grazing with some calves on the farther side, lounged across a bridge to make our acquaintance. We even saw a man cutting grass on the bank, with a discontented air of having nothing to do. Further on was a lonely cottage, but no people ; further on still, where the ground sloped very gently from the feeder to the Dane, where the valley grew narrower, more full of trees, and more intensely green, with a sound of falling waters in the air, two black cows, large and lean, looked at us a little anxiously as we passed by.
And now there was only room for a path, a bank, a hedge, between the feeder and the Dane ; the artificial banks of our friend grew higher, and it flowed through a dark, damp little channel, almost shut out from us and daylight. And then, in a beautiful opening of the valley, the Dane was suddenly a wide, strong stream, coming thundering down a steep weir, with a salmon-leap beside it (or what looked like one). Just below the fall, a high and narrow foot-bridge crossed the stream, leading to more green meadows beyond, with many cows feeding, and trees growing tall and stately ; while woods clothed the left bank, and seemed to lead on to finer distances. There was a solid wall of great blocks of stone stopping up our path; and a broad stone causeways mossy and damp, ran up-stream, separating the main course of the Dane from a sort of backwater leading down to a sluice, through which trickled our friend the feeder, for here was the birthplace of that strange little hill-side stream. Sitting there on the grey stones in a sheltered place, the east wind silent, no sound but the waterfall, the sun shining down on quiet trees, sparkling water, blue valley stretching on up the course of the beautiful Dane, we were very sorry to know that our afternoon's walk was over, that "up the feeder" must be the limit, that, this summer at least, it could not be "up the
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