it which she knew to be vain. I never saw a prettier
flirtation. At last the noble animal, wearied out, retired to the inmost
recesses of his habitation, and would not even approach her when she
stood right before the entrance. 'You are properly served, May. Come
along, Lizzy. Across this wheatfield, and now over the gate. Stop! let
me lift you down. No jumping, no breaking of necks, Lizzy!' And here we
are in the meadows, and out of the world. Robinson Crusoe, in his lonely
island, had scarcely a more complete, or a more beautiful solitude.

These meadows consist of a double row of small enclosures of rich
grass-land, a mile or two in length, sloping down from high arable
grounds on either side, to a little nameless brook that winds between
them with a course which, in its infinite variety, clearness, and
rapidity, seems to emulate the bold rivers of the north, of whom, far
more than of our lazy southern streams, our rivulet presents a miniature
likeness. Never was water more exquisitely tricksy:--now darting over
the bright pebbles, sparkling and flashing in the light with a bubbling
music, as sweet and wild as the song of the woodlark; now stretching
quietly along, giving back the rich tufts of the golden marsh-marigolds
which grow on its margin; now sweeping round a fine reach of green
grass, rising steeply into a high mound, a mimic promontory, whilst the
other side sinks softly away, like some tiny bay, and the water
flows between, so clear, so wide, so shallow, that Lizzy, longing for
adventure, is sure she could cross unwetted; now dashing through two
sand-banks, a torrent deep and narrow, which May clears at a bound;
now sleeping, half hidden, beneath the alders, and hawthorns, and wild
roses, with which the banks are so profusely and variously fringed,
whilst flags,* lilies, and other aquatic plants, almost cover the
surface of the stream. In good truth, it is a beautiful brook, and one
that Walton himself might have sitten by and loved, for trout are there;
we see them as they dart up the stream, and hear and start at the sudden
plunge when they spring to the surface for the summer flies. Izaak
Walton would have loved our brook and our quiet meadows; they breathe
the very spirit of his own peacefulness, a soothing quietude that sinks
into the soul. There is no path through them, not one; we might wander
a whole spring day, and not see a trace of human habitation. They belong
to a number of small proprietors, w