To Mountain Tarn 



edge of the wood, figures were moving among 

 the tree boles. Low down along the ground was 

 a dark cylinder. The adults looked on while the 

 children were at their evening play. I repeat it 

 was not gaiety, except in so far as the play of 

 young foxes may be said to be gay. It was 

 boisterous enough, but it did not add to the joy 

 of the wood. 



Much of the land was of no other use save to 

 look wild, and in the early summer to cast over 

 itself a garment of dusky blossom, such as now 

 glowed through the trees. Birds were there 

 finches and warblers, flitting from bush to bush 

 and perching on the topmost twigs. The green- 

 finch trilled, the whitethroat rollicked, the stone- 

 chat clicked. This further end do the commons 

 serve. Compared with the design of the nest, 

 the creepie was an artless hovel. The dainty 

 ways and relations of the birds made the nomads 

 savages ; the wild lore made them bunglers. 

 After play the children would gather a few eggs 

 for supper, ere they turned in for the night. 



Nomadic life is abroad in these wild places. 

 Creepies are dropped everywhere, always where 

 the charm is wildest. I had seen the wandering 

 unit singing back to the singing birds ; the pair 

 of grave adults in the lane hard by the sugar- 

 loafed rabbit warren ; the family at play on the 

 outskirts of the dimming wood and the margin 

 of the glowing common. 



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