188 OUR WOODLAND TREES. 
following a natural waywardness, has given a 
twist to the white line of dusty carriage road. 
A moment, however, we must pause ere we 
make our plunge into the greenwood. We have 
passed the village enclosure of garden and meadow, 
and crept for an instant out of the torrid heat 
under the shelter of an Ash on the left-hand side 
of our way—for, if the shadow flung by this Tree 
is not of great intensity, there is suggestive cool- 
ness in the quiver of the ashen leaves. Hence 
we reach, a few yards further on, the white 
wooden bridge, on wooden piles, crossing the 
Lymington River, where this stream flows near 
Brockenhurst. Peering over its sides, we note an 
Alder on the left-hand bank, and we turn down to 
the river side, to rest awhile on the grass. The 
great heart-shaped leaves of water-flags float 
from the end of their long stems on the water’s 
surface, their long-stalked yellow blossoms 
peeping, some an inch or two, out of the water, 
others lying recumbent—and deliciously sugges- 
tive of coolness—upon the water’s surface. On 
our right, in front of us, and away to our left 
he these great green leaves, with their golden 
