Crossing the stepping-stones that are put for the people to get through the railings that fence the field, we follow the path to the fishing-ford, and then go on by the river; and this was the route that we often took, for the sake of its frequent twist, as we got with each curve some marked change of view, and with it much change of colour. We at times got useful models, too—shock-headed youngsters, rough and rosy—as at the end of the meadow, close by the road, was a deep back-water, dry in the summer and greened with rushes, which served as a snag play-place for children who chased the butterflies and hid about, till the old bridge echoed their shouts and laughter. There we turn for home, past the black mill-wheel, where the foaming water eddies away past the burdock-beds, to flow glassily further on, over the reflected boughs of the hanging trees and the white undersides of the willows; our road thence lying through a few short fields, where the smell of the blossomed beans blends with the scent of the meadow-sweet.
Source: The Illustrated London News, July 1, 1882, p.19
See also:—
Summer: July
Summer: Roses
Summer: Mornings
Summer: Sounds
Summer: Drawing
Summer: Walks
Summer: Girls
Summer: Rest