cept　for　a　solitary　wren　fidgeting　delicately　about　the　banks　under　the　alder　trees；　or　a　robin　singing　in　the　October　afternoon　across　the　water　from　the　islands；　all　the　bird…life　is　that　of　water…　birds。　Rooks　never　seem　to　e　here；　nor　starlings；　an　occasional　pigeon　flaps　across　to　the　woods；　even　the　sea…gulls　belong　to　the　ploughed　land。　But　wild　swans　e　back　to　nest　in　the　piles　of　fawn…colored　reeds　in　the　spring；　and　two　great　herons　stalk　the　water…meadows　every　day；　struggling　ponderously　upwards　at　the　sound　of　voices。　Snipe　whirl　away　across　the　tussocks　of　brown…quelled　sedge　on　the　adjacent　marshland；　and　a　solitary　kingfisher　breaks　with　magic　electric　streaks　the　dark　enclosures　under　the　alders　that　span　the　narrowest　water。　But　something；　and　for　long　periods；　there　is　no　life　and　no　sound　at　all。　The　water　is　slowly　stilled　after　the　last　fish　have　broken　it；　the　coot　are　silent；　the　leaves　cease　their　shaking　and　falling　in　the　dead　October　air。　The　crimson　float　es　to　rest　on　water　that　seems　to　have　on　it　a　skin　of　oil。

On　such　still　clear　days　the　color　is　wonderful。　From　the　south　bank　of　the　water　poplar　and　alder　and　ash　and　horse…chestnut　let　fall　high　liquid　curtains　of　lemon　and　bronze。　Orchards　of　cherry　and　pear　shoulder　with　drooping　orange　flames　beyond　the　light　wall　of　almost　naked　willows。　The　oaks　are　still　green；　but　the　beeches　in　the　distances　stand　like　red　mountains。　And　on　the　lake　itself　unexpected　color　springs　up：　an　islan