XX 



BRECHKS, on the other hand, have a kind of fairy glory 

 about them that does not seem to belong to our land. We 

 drove through a beech forest the other day/ the road went up 

 zigzagging to the top of a steep hill, and one looked down 

 upon the Beech glades, all golden green in a fierce sun- 

 burst between two showers. And they were still dripping 

 with the rain. It was wonderful, but not English, distinc- 

 tively English, like that Oak wood. It was a Mdrchen- 

 Wold. Siegfried might have strode through it, blowing his 

 horn: youth incarnate, leaping out of Mime's cave to 

 conquer the world. On the inspiration of such a haunt 

 was the Wold-Mustek conceived. 



If we had a dwelling for every different mood, a log-house 

 at the top of that Beech ravine would suit us very well in 

 a sunny month of May. Between the great smooth boles 

 of the trees we would want to peep out at the flat wide 

 land, with the rich far woods below, misty in the sun- 

 shine/ and the distant moors as with the bloom of the 

 grape upon them. We would not want flowers/ nothing 

 but that heavenly green of the young leaves against the 

 blue / and the whispering and the swaying of the boughs 

 to cradle our souls/ and the thrushes and blackbirds to 

 sing the dawn in and the twilight out! How holy and 

 innocent and loving would one's mind become after a 

 week in that log huta week alone, or with one's best 

 beloved ! 



After we came out from that Beech wood we took a 

 wrong turning, and landed ourselves far out on the downs 

 instead of back to our moors. Now, for another mood 

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