To Mountain Tarn 



brought them there, or what they saw, they 

 would not go away quite the same. However 

 opaque the outside, the leaves must have trem- 

 bled through on to the spirit. For once in their 

 lives, and from the point of view of the hunts- 

 man in the stream, they themselves were pictures. 



One slight girl was busy with a hand camera 

 of the most modest dimensions. I hope she was 

 successful, though I am afraid not, since some 

 of the way was too shaded for such instantaneous 

 work. If she sees this, she will learn how I 

 envied her even her toy. The faintest blurred 

 presentment would still have been worth having. 

 Though nothing may give back the infinite fresh- 

 ness of morning in the woods, when the shadows 

 are actually playing on a scene instinct with drama. 



In two main fretting currents, the water parted 

 round a rough islet. It is a stream of islets be- 

 cause a stream of mills. These islets seem born 

 of the unequal flow over the dam. This might 

 be known as the islet of the wood. Half a 

 dozen brawling streamlets broke it up into so 

 many pieces. Huge boulders strove to keep 

 their heads above the long grasses and storm- 

 rent bushes. In the rude channels and through 

 the rank growths, hounds appeared and vanished. 

 From the vantage of a stranded trunk, the master 

 watched and directed. Over all, the lights and 

 shadows played with a bewildering complexity 

 and charm. 



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