If I walk in the woods, I generally hail Miss Kit, who tends to be in the vicinity; often enough I can see her hurrying towards me through the trees, bouncing along the ground like a little orange ball. I was down that way yesterday, and shouted, as usual, and heard a sorrowful voice raised in reply: there she was, on the opposite side of the swamp, hopping up and down with anxiety. She could see me, and I could see her, at a distance of perhaps thirty yards. Her cries got louder, then to my consternation, she made a bee-line for me. The surface of the swamp is a mat of monkey-flower (a kind of mimulus) over mud of unknown depth; she slogged across this undulant green carpet, wailing all the way, then eventually, got to the actual burn which runs through the middle, and paused, as well she might: it is about three feet wide at that point, and the surface beneath her feet was shifting and insubstantial. I was watching with considerable anxiety by that point, but she gathered herself together and sprang lightly across — Miss Kit can jump far greater distances but she was quite evidently attempting to float herself across so as to minimise both the kick-off and the impact of her landing — she did, inevitably, go through the surface on the other side, but to my great relief the waters did not close over her little head. She picked her way deftly from tussock to tussock, scrambled up the bank, and arrived at my side soaking wet, but triumphant. I have been preaching the virtues of going round by the Twisby Island bridge in future, to what effect we will have to see.