270 FIELD AND HEDGEROW. 



the sap has dried) drawn between the yellow-green 

 masses of living leaf. The pathway winds in among 

 the trees at the base of the rocky hill ; light green 

 whortleberries fill every interstice, bearing tiny red 

 globes of flower — flower-lamps — open at the top. 

 Wood-sorrel lifts its delicate veined petals ; the leaf 

 is rounded like the shadow of a bubble on a stone 

 under clear water. I like to stay by the wood-sorrel a 

 little while — it is so chastely beautiful ; like the purest 

 verse, it speaks to the inmost heart. Staying, I hear 

 unconsciously — listen ! Rush ! rush ! like a mighty 

 wind in the wood. 



It draws me on to the deep green pool inclosed 

 about by rocks — a pool to stand near and think into. 

 The purple rock, dotted with black moss ; the white 

 rock ; the thin scarlet line ; the green water ; the over- 

 hanging tree ; the verdant moss upon the bank ; the 

 lady fern — are there still. But I see also now a little 

 pink somewhere in the water, much brown too, and 

 shades I know no name for. The water is not green, 

 but holds in solution three separate sets of colours. 

 The confervae on the stones, the growths beneath at the 

 bottom waving a little as the water swirls like minute 

 seaweeds — these are brown and green and somewhat 

 reddish too. Under water the red rock is toned and 

 paler, but has deep black cavities. Next, the surface, 

 continually changing as it rotates, throws back a differ- 

 ent light, and thirdly, the oaks' yellow-green high up, 

 the pale ash, the tender ferns drooping over low down 

 confer their tints on the stream. So from the floor of 

 the pool, from the surface, and from the adjacent bank, 

 three sets of colours mingle. Washed together by the 

 slow swirl, they produce a shade — the brown of the 

 Barle — lost in darkness where the bank overhangs. 



