212 THE RING OF NATURE 



second-hand visions of the sun, in the green light 

 that pours through the beech leaves, the flecks of 

 gold on the trunks and the uncovered parts of the 

 floor of last year's leaves, the cool of places that 

 the sun has scarcely visited to-day, the aroma of 

 those places where he rested for an hour at noon, 

 the brisk activities of the horse-ants coming down 

 the tree-boles from the golden world above, loaded 

 with their living spoil. 



The upper end of my pond in the wood is filled 

 to the extent of about an acre with horse-tails. 

 In early summer their modest and scattered 

 shoots broke the surface of the water, for in those 

 days the pond was fuller than now. The little 

 shoots even bowed and went under as the giant 

 trout pushed their stalks aside as they foraged at 

 that end of the pond. Primroses gleamed in the 

 red leaves of the wood under bare twigs, and the 

 primrose-spotted bank descended to the edge of 

 the silver water that seemed lifted into little 

 pimples where the horse-tail shoots came through. 

 There was none of the wild tangle of amphibious 

 weeds that has come since to mask the division 

 between land and water. 



All sorts of modern things pushed the horse- 

 tail from the muddy margin into the water, for 

 willow-herb, flag, and forget-me-not are immeasur- 

 ably parvenu compared with equisetum. Old 

 as the horse-tail is, however, it sometimes fights 

 a good battle with the moderns, not only in 

 swampy places, but in dry spots far removed from 



