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" AND this our life, exempt from public haunts, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything."SHAKESPEARE.

AT a distance of more than a mile in the Molega Road is the crossing of a small brook on a pole bridge. At this point the stream, about a rod in width, is gently running over a gravel bed, and half hiding in the bushes as it makes its way to the river, nearly a mile away. For a small part of that distance it tumbles along the margin of a neglected field, and then dives into the primeval forests of birch, oaks, hemlocks and firs, carpeted with mosses and hung with lichens.

Reaching the edge of the wood before it does the river it leaves the shadows, and with many a turn and twist, through a stretch of meadow, where the hardbacks and the polypods fringe its banks, and the herons hide, and bittens boom, it joins at last " the brimming river. " Slyly gliding behind a little hemlock islet it there mingles its waters with the greater stream.

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