50 AN OLD ROAD 



many a shining hour on this bridge, leaning 

 industriously over the railing. I can see 

 the rocky bed at this moment, yes, and 

 the very shape and position of some of the 

 stones, as I saw them thirty years ago ; 

 especially of one, on which we used to bal- 

 ance ourselves to dip up the water or to 

 peer under the bridge. In those days, if 

 we essayed to be uncommonly adventurous, 

 we waded through this low and somewhat 

 dark passage ; a gruesome proceeding, as 

 we were compelled to stoop a little, short 

 as we were, to save our heads, while the 

 road, to our imagination, seemed in momen- 

 tary danger of caving in upon us. Cour- 

 age, like all other human virtues, is but a 

 relative attribute. Possibly the heroic 

 deeds upon which in our grown-up estate 

 we plume ourselves are not greatly more 

 meritorious or wonderful than were some 

 of the childish ventures at the recollection 

 of which we now condescend to feel 

 amused. 



On the surface of the brook flourished 

 two kinds of insects, whose manner of life 

 we never tired of watching. One sort had 

 long, wide-spreading legs, and by us were 



