There are rocks mossy and slippery;
sometimes you stagger, with a great rustling of branches, against a clump
of bushes, and into the midst of it. From end to end of all this tangled
shade goes a pathway scarcely worn, for the leaves are not trodden
through, yet plain enough to the eye, winding gently to avoid tree-trunks
and rocks and little hillocks. In the more open ground, the aspect of a
tall, fire-blackened stump, standing alone, high up on a swell of land,
that rises gradually from one side of the brook, like a monument.
Yesterday, I passed a group of children in this solitary valley,--two
boys, I think, and two girls. One of the little girls seemed to have
suffered some wrong from her companions, for she was weeping and
complaining violently. Another time, I came suddenly on a small Canadian
boy, who was in a hollow place, among the ruined logs of an old causeway,
picking raspberries,--lonely among bushes and gorges, far up the wild
valley,--and the lonelier seemed the little boy for the bright sunshine,
that showed no one else in a wide space of view except him and me.
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