40 FRESH FIELDS 



Great Britain), a branch of the Clyde, — a dark, 

 rock-paved stream, the color of brown stout. It 

 was the wildest bit of forest scenery I saw any- 

 where. I almost imagined myself on the head- 

 waters of the Hudson or the Penobscot. The still- 

 ness, the solitude, the wild boiling waters, were 

 impressive; but the woods had no charm; there 

 were no flowers, no birds; the sylvan folk had 

 moved away long ago, and their house was cold and 

 inhospitable. I sat a half-hour in their dark nettle- 

 grown halls by the verge of the creek, to see if they 

 were stirring anywhere, but they were not. I did, 

 indeed, hear part of a wren's song, and the call of 

 the sandpiper; but that was all. Not one purely 

 wood voice or sound or odor. But looking into the 

 air a few yards below me, there leapt one of those 

 matchless stone bridges, clearing the profound gulf 

 and carrying the road over as securely as if upon 

 the geological strata. It was the bow of art and 

 civilization set against nature's wildness. In the 

 woods beyond, I came suddenly upon the ruins of 

 an old castle, with great trees growing out of it, 

 and rabbits burrowing beneath it. One learns that 

 it takes more than a collection of trees to make a 

 forest, as we know it in this country. Unless they 

 house that spirit of wildness and purity like a 

 temple, they fail to satisfy. In walking to Sel- 

 borne, I skirted Wolmer Forest, but it had an unin- 

 viting look. The Hanger on the hill above Sel- 

 borne, which remains nearly as it was in White's 

 time, — a thrifty forest of beeches, — I explored, 



