Here the opposing sides of the glen, approaching each other and becoming clothed with brushwood and stunted oaks, formed a wooded ravine, at the bottom of which ran the mill-stream, in broken, unquiet course, struggling with many stones, chafing against rugged banks, fretting with gnarled tree-roots, foaming, gurgling, battling as it went. Here, when you had wandered half a mile from the mill, you found a sense of deep solitude--found it in the shade of unmolested trees, received it in the singing of many birds, for which that shade made a home. This was no trodden way. The freshness of the wood flowers attested that foot of man seldom pressed them; the abounding wild roses looked as if they budded, bloomed, and faded under the watch of solitude, as if in a sultan's harem. Here you saw the sweet azure of blue-bells, and recognized in pearl-white blossoms, spangling the grass, a humble type of some starlit spot in space.

Here the opposing sides of the glen, clothed with brushwood and stunted oaks, formed a wooded ravine, at the bottom of which ran the mill-stream, struggling with many stones and tree-roots, foaming, gurgling, battling as it went. Half a mile from the mill, you found deep solitude. The wood flowers were fresh underfoot: wild roses bloomed abundantly. The sweet azure of blue-bells and pearl-white blossoms spangled the grass.
