270 FIELD AND HEDGEROW. 
the sap has dried) drawn between the yellow-green 
masses of living leaf. The pathway winds in among 
the trees at the base of the rocky hill; light green 
whortleberries fill every interstice, bearing tiny red 
globes .of flower — flower-lamps—open at the top. 
Wood-sorrel lifts its delicate veined petals; the leaf 
is rounded like the shadow of a bubble on a stone 
‘ under clear water. I like to stay by the wood-sorrel a 
little while—it is so chastely beautiful ; like the purest 
verse, it speaks to the inmost heart. Staying, I hear 
unconsciously — listen! Rush! rush! like a mighty 
wind in the wood. 
It draws me on to the deep green pool incloséd 
about by rocks—a pool to stand near and think into. 
The purple rock, dotted with black moss; the white 
rock ; the thin scarlet line; the green water; the over- 
hanging tree; the verdant moss upon the bank; the 
lady fern—are there still. But I see also now a little 
pink somewhere in the watcr, much brown too, and 
shades I know no name for. The water is not green, 
but holds in solution three separate sets of colours. 
The confervze on the stones, the growths beneath at the 
bottom waving a little as the water swirls like minute 
seaweeds—these are brown and green and somewhat 
reddish too. Under water the red rock is toned and 
paler, but has deep black cavities. Next, the surface, 
continually changing as it rotates, throws back a differ- 
ent light, and thirdly, the oaks’ yellow-green high up, 
the pale ash, the tender ferns drooping over low down 
confer their tints on the stream. So from the floor of 
the pool, from the surface, and from the adjacent bank, 
three sets of colours mingle. Washed together by the 
slow swirl, they produce a shade—the brown of the 
Barle—lost in darkness where the bank overhangs. 
