A SURREY RIVER. 



Hundreds of rills, drains, and little streams run 

 into the Mole in all directions, mile after mile ; 

 gullies run through meadows, ploughed lands, and 

 thickets, eight and ten feet deep they are, and in 

 many places more. Their sides are a tangled net- 

 work of roots and stubs, with a dribbling stream of 

 water running at the bottom, crossed here and there 

 by wooden bridges heavily planked two or three 

 planks wide, as the case may be, firmly butted on 

 each side ; whilst the rails are of a stoutness that 

 does not seem called for at least so the stranger 

 might think, looking at them in the bright summer 

 time. If he chanced to be there when the autumn 

 rains come down, he would take a different view of 

 the matter; for the water comes off the hills and 

 the clay-lands with a rush, filling the gullies, and 

 covering the rustic bridges up to the top rails 

 carrying all before it with a roaring rush, and flood- 

 ing all the woodland meadows. Any one getting 

 into the river then would be drowned to a certainty, 

 for he would be inextricably entangled in the net- 

 work of roots. 



One morning, when I had business of immediate 

 importance to attend to, my path led me along and 



