250 THE CURVED MEADOW. 



defaced by the iron heels of the profanum 

 vulgus. 



It lies surrounded by copse or by hangers,, 

 as dear old Gilbert would have termed it, had 

 it existed near Selborne which as we know, 

 you and I, that it does not. It is approachable 

 by one path only ; up, up through the bracken and 

 brambles, the wild roses and the foxgloves, a 

 steep and slippery footway even in day-light, 

 whose ascent must be unhurried if one's rod is 

 set up, where the top joint has to be poked and 

 guided under the broad beech boughs; until, 

 hot and breathless, we reach the rough fence 

 leading into the steep meadow overlooking the 

 river. 



The time is nearing eight o'clock in June. 

 The shadows of the larches have lengthened 

 until they cross the grass like trenches, and 

 are merged into the brushwood at the lower 

 end. Below on the right is the hanging wood, 

 where huge beeches, some of whose tops one 

 can look over, hold on to the steep red cliff and 

 preserve it, and the river below, from unsightly 

 landslides season after season. Through the 

 branches one can see the full glow of the 

 sunlight on the opposite valley, its well defined 

 purple shadow creeping up the hillside minute 

 by minute. 



A hundred yards further on there is the only 

 gap. Our meadow dips down, and the curved 

 meadow below rises on tiptoe to meet it, under 

 an old hawthorn tree to which the fence is 

 nailed. For seven years those same nails have 



