Their Lines Always Flow In Pleasant Curves; They Need No Wind
To Bend Them Into Loveliness Of Form:
So quiet and deserted is the place
that the wide highway road is green with vegetation, and the impression
of our wheels is the only trace upon them.
Looking up, the road - up the
hill - it appears green almost from side to side. It is well made and
firm, and fit for any traffic; but a growth of minute weeds has sprung
up, and upon these our wheels leave their marks. Of roads that have
become grass - grown in war - desolated countries we have all read, but
this is our own unscathed England.
The nature of the ancient forest, its quiet and untrodden silence,
adheres to the site. Far down in the valley there is more stirring, and
the way is well pulverised. In the hollow there is an open space, backed
by the old beech trees of the park, dotted with ashes, and in the midst a
farmhouse partly timbered. Here by the road-side they point out to you a
low mound, at the very edge of the road, which could easily be passed
unnoticed as a mere heap of scrapings overgrown with weeds and thistles.
On looking closer it appears more regularly shaped; it is indeed a grave.
Of old time an unfortunate woman committed suicide, and according to the
barbarous law of those days her body was buried at the cross-roads and a
stake driven through it.
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