IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. 167 



One afternoon, when the sun seemed likely to get 

 the better of the soft rain-clouds, I set out to climb 

 to the top of Helvellyn. I followed the highway a 

 mile or more beyond the Swan Inn, and then I com- 

 mitted myself to a foot-path that turns up the moun- 

 tain-side to the right, and crosses into Grisedale and 

 so to Ulleswater. Two school-girls whom I over- 

 took put me on the right track. The voice of a 

 foaming mountain torrent was in my ears a long dis- 

 tance, and now and then the path crossed it. Fair- 

 field Mountain was on my right hand, Helm Crag 

 and Dunmail Raise on my left. Grasmere plain 

 soon lay far below. The hay-makers, encouraged by 

 a gleam of sunshine, were hastily raking together the 

 rain-blackened hay. From my outlook they appeared 

 to be slowly and laboriously rolling up a great sheet 

 of dark-brown paper, uncovering beneath it one of 

 the most fresh and vivid green. The mown grass is 

 so long in curing in this country (frequently two 

 weeks) that the new blades spring beneath it and a 

 second crop is well under way before the old is " car- 

 ried." The long mountain slopes up which I was 

 making my way were as verdant as the plain below 

 me. Large coarse ferns or bracken, with an under 

 lining of fine grass, covered the ground on the lower 

 portions. On the higher, grass alone prevailed. On 

 the top of the divide, looking down into the valley of 

 Ulleswater, I came upon one of those black tarns or 

 mountain lakelets which are such a feature in this 

 strange scenery. The word tarn has no meaning 



