THE BROOK 1$ 



By the side of the stream a little path goes wind- 

 ing up the hillside. Away behind the houses it goes, 

 towards the swampy ground that fills the uplands. I 

 was always fascinated by that little path. Where 

 was the end of it ? That seemed a proper question 

 to put to little John, the sledge-driver ; so I put it 

 to him. His answer was about as satisfying as an 

 answer may well be no long, wordy explanations, 

 no " ifs " and ' ' buts ' ' and ' ' perhapses ' ' and 

 " might -bes." 



" Come and see," said little John. 



So I put on my blanket smock, or dickey, or 

 jumper or whatever you may care to call the 

 Eskimo garment for the wind was keen, even on a 

 summer afternoon when the women were trampling 

 at their washing, and I followed little John. 



But, oh, for a pair of Eskimo legs ! The little 

 man went trotting on, sure-footed among the stones, 

 while I came following after, stumbling and panting. 

 We climbed the hillside, and the deep-worn little 

 path led us beside the swamp. 



That swamp was the home of the gnats ; their 

 buzzing sounded like the sighing of the wind, and 

 but for my veil I should have been eaten alive. John 

 had a short, black pipe in his mouth, and was sur- 

 rounded by a barrage of tobacco smoke through 

 which no gnat could go. We trotted on. 



We crossed the top of the island and began to go 

 down towards the sea ; a gentle breeze from the 

 west met us, and the gnats fell back before it. Our 

 well-worn path went winding on and lost itself before 

 us in the shingly beach of a lovely little bay. John 



