GRAY BRIG 129 



are scribbled in sinuous ways of emerald 

 between the darker hummocks of hea- 

 ther, it dips into a deep gorge that is filled 

 with the merry music of rushing water. 

 An old gray bridge spans the stream, 

 and it has been so adorned by time, at- 

 tuned into harmony with its surround- 

 ings, that it might have existed there 

 since the age began. It is easier to think 

 of it rising out of the primeval snow 

 and ice, like the great water-worn boul- 

 ders themselves, hoary with the sinking, 

 shredded mantle of that long and silent 

 winter, than to imagine that it grew to 

 the sound of the hammer and chisel. No 

 ivy clings to the bare walls, scarcely a 

 fern relieves their dour, cold grayness 

 with a touch of green. Only glaucous 

 lichens, shrivelled relics of some half- 

 forgotten age, creep their tedious way 

 upon the stones. More venerable, it 

 seems, than yonder ancient cromlech 

 that stands, isolated and bare, on the 

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