A SURREY RIVER. 



Hundreds of rills, drains, and little streams run 

 into the Mole in all directions, mile after mile ; 

 gullies run through meadows, ploughed lands, and 

 thickets, — eight and ten feet deep they are, and in 

 many places more. Their sides are a tangled net- 

 work of roots and stubs, with a dribbling stream of 

 water running at the bottom, crossed here and there 

 by wooden bridges heavily planked — two or three 

 planks wide, as the case may be, firmly butted on 

 each side ; whilst the rails are of a stoutness that 

 does not seem called for — at least so the stranger 

 might think, looking at them in the bright summer 

 time. If he chanced to be there when the autumn 

 rains come down, he would take a different view of 

 the matter ; for the water comes off the hills and 

 the clay-lands with a rush, filling the gullies, and 

 covering the rustic bridges up to the top rails — 

 carrying all before it with a roaring rush, and flood- 

 ing all the woodland meadows. Any one getting 

 into the river then would be drowned to a certainty, 

 for he would be inextricably entangled in the net- 

 work of roots. 



One morning, when I had business of immediate 

 importance to attend to, my path led me along and 



