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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