only of the fallen tree.



THE DELL.

May 2nd.--A delicious evening;--bright sunshine; light summer air; a
sky almost cloudless; and a fresh yet delicate verdure on the hedges
and in the fields;--an evening that seems made for a visit to my
newly-discovered haunt, the mossy dell, one of the most beautiful
spots in the neighbourhood, which after passing, times out of
number, the field which it terminates, we found out about two months
ago from the accident of May's killing a rabbit there. May has had
a fancy for the place ever since; and so have I.

Thither accordingly we bend our way;--through the village;--up the
hill;--along the common;--past the avenue;--across the bridge; and
by the hill. How deserted the road is to-night! We have not seen a
single acquaintance, except poor blind Robert, laden with his sack
of grass plucked from the hedges, and the little boy that leads him.
A singular division of labour! Little Jem guides Robert to the
spots where the long grass grows, and tells him where it is most
plentiful; and then the old man cuts it close to the roots, and
between them they fill the sack, and sell the contents in the
village. Half the cows in the street--for our baker, our
wheelwright, and our shoemaker has each his Alderney--owe the best
part of their maintenance to blind Robert's industry.

Here we are at the entrance of the cornfield which leads to the
dell, and which commands so fine a view of the Loddon, the mill, the