The woods came straggling
down on either shore. There were fallen trees in the stream here
and there. On one of the points an old swamp-maple, with its
decrepit branches and its leaves already touched with the hectic
colours of decay, hung far out over the water which was undermining
it, looking and leaning downward, like an aged man who bends, half-
sadly and half-willingly, towards the grave.
But for the most part the brook lay wide open to the sky, and the
tide, rising and sinking somewhat irregularly in the pond below,
made curious alternations in its depth and in the swiftness of its
current. For about half a mile we navigated this lazy little river,
and then we found that rowing would carry us no farther, for we came
to a place where the stream issued with a livelier flood from an
archway in a thicket.
This woodland portal was not more than four feet wide, and the
branches of the small trees were closely interwoven overhead. We
shipped the oars and took one of them for a paddle. Stooping down,
we pushed the boat through the archway and found ourselves in the
Fairy Dell. It was a long, narrow bower, perhaps four hundred feet
from end to end, with the brook dancing through it in a joyous,
musical flow over a bed of clean yellow sand and white pebbles.
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