VIII 
THE TOAD AS TRAVELLER 
One summer day I sat myself down on the rail of 
a small wooden foot-bridge—a very old bridge it 
looked, bleached to a pale grey colour with grey, 
green, and yellow lichen growing on it, and very 
creaky with age, but the rail was still strong enough 
to support my weight. The bridge was at the hedge- 
side, and the stream under it flowed out of a thick 
wood over the road and into a marshy meadow on 
the other side, overgrown with coarse tussocky 
grass. It was a relief to be in that open sunny 
spot, with the sight of water and green grass and 
blue sky before me, after prowling for hours in the 
wood—a remnant of the old Silchester forest— 
worried by wood-flies in the dense undergrowth. 
These same wood-flies and some screaming jays 
were all the wild creatures I had seen, and I 
would now perhaps see something better at that 
spot. 
It was very still, and for some time I saw 
nothing, until my wandering vision lighted on a 
toad travelling towards the water. He was right 
out in the middle of the road, a most dangerous 
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