THE FERN WORLD 
I 16 
Dreamily one wanders on, feeling in its true fulness, in 
such a place, the luxury of mere existence. The soft and 
musically-monotonous murmur of the stream adds a piquancy 
to one’s enjoyment at the sight of moss-green turf, of Fern, 
gorse, and heather. But now the gentle hiss of the stream is 
changed to a soft roar as again it falls in one dazzling sheet 
of resplendent crystal over big moss-covered stones. Turn- 
ing for a moment to look at the shimmering current, as its 
louder voice has caught the ear, we espy, peeping out modestly 
from the drier side of the mossy stones, a little plant, whose 
purple stem and shining dark green fronds, tell us it can be 
no other than the Maidenhair Spleenwort. On again goes 
our stream, and then for a moment it parts in gentle rills, 
which again unite into one, as, with a steep run for some 
twenty yards, and a roar, it bounds over the cliff at the bottom 
of the combe into the sea. 
