There were deep places in the curves where you could hardly touch
bottom with an oar, and shallow places in the straight runs where
the boat would barely float. Not a ray of unbroken sunlight leaked
through the green roof of this winding corridor; and all along the
sides there were delicate mosses and tall ferns and wildwood flowers
that love the shade.
At the upper end of the bower our progress in the boat was barred by
a low bridge, on a forgotten road that wound through the pine-woods.
Here I left my lady Graygown, seated on the shady corner of the
bridge with a book, swinging her feet over the stream, while I set
out to explore its further course. Above the wood-road there were
no more fairy dells, nor easy-going estuaries. The water came down
through the most complicated piece of underbrush that I have ever
encountered. Alders and swamp maples and pussy-willows and gray
birches grew together in a wild confusion. Blackberry bushes and
fox-grapes and cat-briers trailed and twisted themselves in an
incredible tangle. There was only one way to advance, and that was
to wade in the middle of the brook, stooping low, lifting up the
pendulous alder-branches, threading a tortuous course, now under and
now over the innumerable obstacles, as a darning-needle is pushed in
and out through the yarn of a woollen stocking.
Pages:
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170