Here it was just as in the old days-a silent wilderness. On some
scattered patches of drier soil there grew a little short heather
and a few clumps of rushes. They were withered; but on their stiff
stems there still hung one or two tufts--black, and sodden by the
autumn rain. For the most part the soil was fine, black, and
crumbling--wet and full of water-holes. Gray and twisted tree-roots
stuck up above the surface, interlaced like a gnarled net-work.

The old raven well understood all that he saw. There had been trees
here in the old times, before even his day.

The wood had disappeared; branches, leaves, everything was gone.
Only the tangled roots remained, deep down in the soft mass of
black fibres and water.

But further than this, change could not possibly go; so it must
endure, and here, at any rate, men would have to stint their
meddling.

The old bird held himself erect. The farms lay so far away that he
felt securely at home, here in the middle of the bottomless morass.
One relic, at least, of antiquity must remain undisturbed. He
smoothed his glossy black feathers, and said several times,
"Bonjour, madame!"

But down from the nearest farm came a couple of men with a horse
and cart; two small boys ran behind. They took a crooked course
among the hummocks, but made as though to cross the morass.

"They must soon stop," thought the raven.