IN THE WOODLAND 103 



streams down the wheel tracks in winter, and 

 scarred by two dry stony channels in summer, 

 leads up the face of the ridge. 



Why the farm at the top was called Balmy- 

 down, no casual visitor could ever find out. But 

 those who knew the scene best, and loved it most, 

 guessed that it must have been christened on one 

 of these summer days when it plainly suggested its 

 name ; that is, if the word means what it seems to 

 do, which I by no means vouch for. 



Looking down over the grass park, or the 

 whispering heads of the wheat to the stream 

 below, and beyond to the picturesque patches, 

 whose wounds time had healed, cool in their firry 

 darkness, and relieved by touches of soft green, 

 the natural eye, aided by some association, could 

 scarcely seek for anything more fair. 



The cart-road passes behind the farmyard, and 

 leads along the crest of the ridge to the wood, some 

 half a mile beyond. At one time, no doubt, all 

 this was shadowed by trees. The path-side vegeta- 

 tion still bears traces of the ancient state of things ; 

 for it is a long time before the natural growths 

 can be entirely rooted out, and the rudeness 

 refined away. 



A dry-stone dyke separates the wood from a 



