A BROOK 



SOME low wooden rails guarding the approach to a 

 bridge over a brook one day induced me to rest under 

 an aspen, with my back against the tree. Some horse- 

 chestnuts, beeches, and alders grew there, fringing the 

 end of a long plantation of willow stoles which extended 

 in the rear following the stream. In front, southwards, 

 there were open meadows and cornfields, over which 

 shadow and sunshine glided in succession as the sweet 

 westerly wind carried the white clouds before it. 



The brimming brook, as it wound towards me through 

 the meads, seemed to tremble on the verge of overflow- 

 ing, as the crown of wine in a glass rises yet does not 

 spill. Level with the green grass, the water gleamed as 

 though polished where it flowed smoothly, crossed with 

 the dark shadows of willows which leaned over it. By 

 the bridge, where the breeze rushed through the arches, 

 a ripple flashed back the golden rays. The surface by 

 the shore slipped towards a side hatch and passed over 

 in a liquid curve, clear and unvarying, as if of solid 

 crystal, till shattered on the stones, where the air caught 

 up and played with the sound of the bubbles as they 

 broke. 



Beyond the green slope of corn, a thin, soft vapour 

 hung on the distant woods, and hid the hills. The pale 

 young leaves of the aspen rustled faintly, not yet with 



their full sound ; the sprays of the horse-chestnut, droop 



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