In the interstices
grow brake and broad-leaved forest-grass. The trees that spring from the
top of this wall have their roots pressing close to the rock, so that
there is no soil between; they cling powerfully, and grasp the crag
tightly with their knotty fingers. The trees on both sides are so thick,
that the sight and the thoughts are almost immediately lost among
confused stems, branches, and clustering green leaves,--a narrow strip of
bright blue sky above, the sunshine falling lustrously down, and making
the pathway of the brook luminous below. Entering among the thickets, I
find the soil strewn with old leaves of preceding seasons, through which
may be seen a black or dark mould; the roots of trees stretch frequently
across the path; often a moss-grown brown log lies athwart, and when you
set your foot down, it sinks into the decaying substance,--into the heart
of oak or pine. The leafy boughs and twigs of the underbrush enlace
themselves before you, so that you must stoop your head to pass under, or
thrust yourself through amain, while they sweep against your face, and
perhaps knock off your hat.
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