was spared the pain of bidding them farewell.

And now, down the rushing stream, guided by the bright flashes of
the storm; past tall birch-fringed rocks, which shone out one
moment as clear as day, and the next were dark as night; past dark
hovers under swirling banks, from which great trout rushed out on
Tom, thinking him to be good to eat, and turned back sulkily, for
the fairies sent them home again with a tremendous scolding, for
daring to meddle with a water-baby; on through narrow strids and
roaring cataracts, where Tom was deafened and blinded for a moment
by the rushing waters; along deep reaches, where the white water-
lilies tossed and flapped beneath the wind and hail; past sleeping
villages; under dark bridge-arches, and away and away to the sea.
And Tom could not stop, and did not care to stop; he would see the
great world below, and the salmon, and the breakers, and the wide
wide sea.

And when the daylight came, Tom found himself out in the salmon
river.

And what sort of a river was it? Was it like an Irish stream,
winding through the brown bogs, where the wild ducks squatter up
from among the white water-lilies, and the curlews flit to and fro,
crying "Tullie-wheep, mind your sheep;" and Dennis tells you
strange stories of the Peishtamore, the great bogy-snake which lies
in the black peat pools, among the old pine-stems, and puts his
head out at night to snap at the cattle as they come down to
drink?--But you must not believe all that Dennis tells you, mind;
for if you ask him: