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A BROOK. 



Some low wooden rails guarding the approach 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, as if of solid 

 crystal, till shattered on the stones, where the air 



