My eyes wandering to the horizon, I detected,
on the very margin of the moorland, a dense clump of trees, which I
instantly associated with the spinney in my old friend Mr. Porter's
story, and, determining that the renowned spinney should be my goal, I
at once aimed for it, vigorously striking out along the path which I
thought would be most likely to lead to it. Half an hour's brisk
walking brought me to my destination, and I found myself standing
opposite a granite wall which my imagination had no difficulty in
identifying with the wall so well described by Mr. Porter. Removing
the briars and gorse prickles which left little of my stockings whole,
I went up to the wall, and, measuring it with my body, found it was a
good foot taller than I. This would mean rather more climbing than I
had bargained for. But the pines--the grim silence of their slender
frames and gently swaying summits--fascinated me. They spoke of
possibilities few could see or appreciate as I could; possibilities of
a sylvan phantasmagoria enhanced by the soft and mystic radiance of
the moon. An owl hooted, and the rustling of brushwood told me of the
near proximity of some fur-coated burrower in the ground. High above
this animal life, remoter even than the tops of my beloved trees or
the mountain-ranges, etched on the dark firmament, shone multitudinous
stars, even the rings round Saturn being plainly discernible. From the
Milky Way my eyes at length wandered to the pines, and a puff of air
laden with the odour of their resin and decaying brushwood decided me.
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