A BROOK 



OME low wooden rails guarding the ap- 

 proach to a bridge over a brook one day 

 induced me to rest under an aspen, with 

 my back against the tree. Some horse- 

 chestnuts, beeches, and alders grew there, fringing 

 the end of a long plantation of willow stoles which 

 extended in the rear following the stream. In 

 front, southwards, there were open meadows and 

 cornfields, over which shadow and sunshine glided 

 in succession as the sweet westerly wind carried 

 the white clouds before it. 



The brimming brook, as it wound towards me 

 through the meads, seemed to tremble on the verge 

 of overflowing, as the crown of wine in a 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 unvarying, 

 -63- 



