noon I sat myself down on a large flat
rock beside the stream, and proceeded to make my humble breakfast--some
bread and a few cresses, washed down with a little water scarce
flavoured with brandy, followed by my pipe; and I lay watching the white
bubbles that flowed by me, until I began to fancy I could read a moral
lesson in their course. Here was a great swollen fellow, rotund and
full, elbowing out of his way all his lesser brethren, jostling and
pushing aside each he met with; but at last bursting from very plethora,
and disappearing as though he had never been. There were a myriad of
little bead-like specks, floating past noiselessly, and yet having their
own goal and destination; some uniting with others, grew stronger
and hardier, and braved the current with bolder fortune, while others
vanished ere you could see them well. A low murmuring plash against the
reeds beneath the rock drew my attention to the place, and I perceived
that a little boat, like a canoe, was fastened by a hay-rope to the
bank, and surged with each motion of the stream against the weeds. I
looked about to see the owner, but no one could I detect; not a living
thing seemed near, nor even a habitation of any kind. The sun at that
moment shone strongly out, lighting up all the rich landscape on the
opposite side of the river, and throwing long gleams into a dense
beech-wood, where a dark, grass-grown alley entered. Suddenly the desire
seized me to enter the forest by that shady path. I strapped on my
knapsack at once, and stepped into the little boat. There was neither
oar nor paddle, but as the river was shallow, my long staff served as a
pole to drive her across, and I reached the shore safely. Fastening
the craft securely to a branch, I set forward towards the wood. As I
approached, a little board nailed to a tree drew my eye towards it,
and I read the nearly-effaced inscription, 'Route des Ardennes.' What a
thrill did not these words send through my heart! And was this, indeed,
the forest of which Shakespeare told us? Was I really 'under the
greenwood tree,' where fair Rosalind had rested, and where melancholy
Jaques had mused and mourned? And as I walked along, how instinct with
his spirit did each spot appear! There was the oak--

'Whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along the wood.'
A little farther on I came upon--

'The bank of osiers by the murmuring stream.'

What a bright prerogative has