THOUGHTS FROM WRITINGS 



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 unvary- 

 ing, 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. — ' Nature near London ' : 

 A Brook. 



OCTOBER'S winds are too 

 searching for us to linger be- 

 side the brook, but still it is 

 pleasant to pass by and remember the 

 summer days. For the year is never 

 gone by; in a moment we recall the 

 sunshine we enjoyed in May, the roses 



80 



