III. 



MY WOOD. 



\Y wood is at no great distance from 

 my favourite pond, which I have just 

 described. A walk of five minutes or so 

 by a meadow, and then down a lane, 

 with high untrimmed hedges on either 

 side, the banks at proper season bright 

 with primroses and violets and dog- 

 roses, and later in the year clusters of the wild hop 

 hanging out luxuriously above, the large convolvulus 

 blowing its trumpets sweetly to the wind ; and again 

 through a meadow, by the side of the stream which 

 flows from the pond, brings you to the entrance, where 

 you cross a rustic bridge; for just here the little stream 

 flows into a larger one, which skirts the one side of the 

 wood throughout its entire length. This larger stream 

 flows on with a babbling murmur, as though it were 

 ever singing to itself a quiet tune, as Coleridge has it 

 in "The Ancient Mariner," whether it is the leafy 

 month of June or not. There you see, as you look 

 down, it turns and twists and glimmers, as though 

 it returned your smile, making all look greener, and, 

 where it is not almost overspanned by the overhanging 

 branches, mirroring and mocking sky and cloud in the 

 most unexpected and fantastic fashion. 



As you walk into the wood it seems as though the 



