ious drip of the rain-heavy boughs into the clear
peacock-green depths of water. And, in fact, the disappointment is that
this is precisely what the Silent Pool might be. It is what it used to
be, I think; but so many people have heard of it and have come on
bicycles and in carriages and motor-cars to see it, that the leaf-strewn
paths are trampled into mud round it; and it cannot be called silent,
for you will not escape hearing other people, who have quite as much
right as you to be there, talk about it and tramp round its margin.
Then, too, for the convenience of visitors, there has been built on the
edge of the pool a thatched arbour of wood, into which you admit
yourself with a very large key, only to be deafened on the spot by ten
thousand cockney names scrawled on the white walls round you. Those who
have gibbeted themselves on the walls have also thrown the newspapers
that held their lunch into the water, and bottles with the paper--a most
unhappy spectacle. Had I the right to touch the place, the arbour would
be packed up offhand for Rosherville. Only in one particular has the
arbour any claim on the wayfarer's gratitude. It enables him to watch
the large trout which swim in the clear deep water under him as closely
as if they were behind the glass of an aquarium. Trout which leap out of
the water every two minutes in a spring afternoon, and yet which are
tame enough to come and be fed under the rail of a wooden arbour by
trooping visitors, are a sight for idle fishermen to see. I have fed
them with worms, but I suspect them to be better used to sandwiches.

[Illustration: _Fireplace in White Horse, Shere._]

The road runs eastward a mile from Sherborne ponds to Shere. Who first
named the Shirebourne pond the Silent Pool? The old name is the best,
and the water of the pond ought to be added to the beauties of Shere. If
Shere is to be counted the prettiest Surrey village of all, I think it
is the Tillingbourne which decides the choice. Six or seven other
villages occur, each with its own fascination; Alfold, deep among the
primroses of the Fold Country; Chiddingfold, with its old inn and the
red cottages set round the green; Compton, with its flower gardens and
old timber; Thorpe, quiet among the elms; Oxted, lining the hill road
under the downs, and the Bell inn at the cross-ways; Betchworth and its
cottage roses; Coldharbour dotted over the sandstone; Friday Street,
hardly a village, on the banks of the tarn a