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 reeds and coarse grasses, whilst it bent into a great curve the solitary tall poplar that alone stood out in relief against the stormy sky—

For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray.

There was plenty of movement everywhere, for the strong breeze made waves of the long lank grass, as it makes waves of the sea; but there were no signs of life except for a few stray storm-loving seagulls that, for reasons best known to themselves, were whirling about thus far inland, uttering peevish cries the while, apparently as much out of their element as a sailor of the old school ashore.

A strange, weird world this English Fenland seems to unfamiliar eyes, especially when seen under a brooding sky; and there is a peculiar quality of mystery, that baffles description and cannot be analysed, in the deep blue-gray palpitating gloom that gathers over the Fenland distances when they lie under the threatening shadow of some coming storm. Under such conditions the scenery of the Fens is pronouncedly striking, but even under ordinary circumstances a man can have but little poetry in his soul who cannot admire its wild beauties, its vast breadths of luxuriant greenery over which the eye can range unrestrained for leagues upon leagues on every side, its space-expressing distances and its mighty cloud-scapes, for the sky-scape is a feature in the Fenland prospect not to be overlooked; in fact, I am inclined to think that its sky scenery—if I may be allowed the term*