. Down the eastern and up the Black Brandywine.. . r dullness, it shoneupon the sluggish stream, transmuting it to gold, and thensank down behind the Nantmeal hills. I looked about andlistened. Not a crickets chirp, nor a frogs croak, nor abirds song, nothing but the footfall of a tired peddler going upthe road with a heavy pack upon his back. By following him alittle distance and turning to the left, I might have tracedthree streamlets to their sources—one on the Millard farm,another near Loags Corner, and the third at the base of themountains. Instead of doing so, I faced about and walked to

. Down the eastern and up the Black Brandywine.. . r dullness, it shoneupon the sluggish stream, transmuting it to gold, and thensank down behind the Nantmeal hills. I looked about andlistened. Not a crickets chirp, nor a frogs croak, nor abirds song, nothing but the footfall of a tired peddler going upthe road with a heavy pack upon his back. By following him alittle distance and turning to the left, I might have tracedthree streamlets to their sources—one on the Millard farm,another near Loags Corner, and the third at the base of themountains. Instead of doing so, I faced about and walked to Stock Photo
Preview

Image details

Contributor:

Reading Room 2020 / Alamy Stock Photo

Image ID:

2CDHXDK

File size:

7.1 MB (229 KB Compressed download)

Releases:

Model - no | Property - noDo I need a release?

Dimensions:

1603 x 1558 px | 27.1 x 26.4 cm | 10.7 x 10.4 inches | 150dpi

More information:

This image is a public domain image, which means either that copyright has expired in the image or the copyright holder has waived their copyright. Alamy charges you a fee for access to the high resolution copy of the image.

This image could have imperfections as it’s either historical or reportage.

. Down the eastern and up the Black Brandywine.. . r dullness, it shoneupon the sluggish stream, transmuting it to gold, and thensank down behind the Nantmeal hills. I looked about andlistened. Not a crickets chirp, nor a frogs croak, nor abirds song, nothing but the footfall of a tired peddler going upthe road with a heavy pack upon his back. By following him alittle distance and turning to the left, I might have tracedthree streamlets to their sources—one on the Millard farm, another near Loags Corner, and the third at the base of themountains. Instead of doing so, I faced about and walked toDorians Mills. 99 ] THE BIRTHPLACE OF T. BUCHANAN READ. If from this oaten pipePlucked from the shadow of primeval woodsAnd waived to changeful numbers by strange airs, Born of my native stream in leafy depthsOf unfrequented glades—somewhat of songPour through its simple stops and wake againIn other hearts what I have felt in mine.Then not in vain I hold it to my lipsAnd breathe the fulness of my soul away. T. Buchanan Read—The New Pastoral.. OW far to Corner Ketch? I asked aboy at Dorians Station. Two milesacross the Brandywine, was the as-tonishing reply. The roads throughEast Brandywine Township are hilly, on a hot day—wearisome; but to seea poets birthplace is worth an effort, and I made the effort. On the west-ern side of the Brandywine, south of the bridge, a finger-boardpointed to a wood, through which my road made many a turn.Doctor Johnsons habit of counting posts never commendeditself to me, but one does find a passing interest in numberingthe different varieties of trees. Along this road are button- [ lOO ^^:<S*i?^