190 DICK ROOK. 



in abundance at their proper seasons. The lane 

 was gracefully arched over with the branches of 

 stunted oaks, whose roots here and there spread 

 themselves out in all directions, appearing in search 

 of some crevice in which they might insert them- 

 selves. The branches were entangled with wood- 

 bines, and intermixed with hazels, some of whose 

 long shoots had been pulled down by boys in search 

 of nuts, and hung in disorder beneath the beautiful 

 arch above. As we walked along, the sand was so 

 soft and yielding, that our footsteps were as silent 

 as if we trod on a carpet. 



I delight in these charming rural lanes, especi- 

 ally in the Spring and Summer. They are the 

 haunt of the nightingale and thrush. Their banks 

 are enamelled with various flowers, and here and 

 there a few drops of the purest water seem to have 

 been distilled from some portion of rock, and 

 trickle down its surface, nourishing in their course 

 a variety of pretty mosses of the most delicate 

 shapes and hues. The shade is delightful, though 

 now and then a gleam of sun is admitted, 



Just where the parting boughs light shadows play, 



which gives a warmth and cheerfulness to the 

 scene. 



Once*, and only once, it was my good fortune to 

 pass along one of my favourite lanes on a fine 

 autumnal evening, as the sun was setting in all its 



