by

Thomas Hardy

CHAPTER I.

The rambler who, for old association or other reasons, should trace the forsaken coach road running almost in a meridional line from Bristol to the south shore of England, would find himself during the latter half of his journey in the vicinity of some extensive woodlands, interspersed with apple orchards. Here the trees, timber or fruit bearing, as the case may be, make the wayside hedges ragged by their drip and shade, stretching over the road with easeful horizontality, as if they found the unsubstantial air an adequate support for their limbs. At one place, where a hill is crossed, the largest of the woods shows itself bisected by the high way, as the head of thick hair is bisected by the white line of its parting. The spot is lonely.