ass about the cattle-paths, there are
hardly any grasses on the moor save deer's hair and glade-grass; and all
the rest is heath, and moss, and furze, and fern.

Softly--not all; you have forgotten the bog plants; and there are (as I
said) many more plants beside on the moor than you fancy. But we will
look into that another time. At all events, the plants outside are on
the whole quite different from the hay-field.

Of course: that is what makes the field look green and the moor brown.

Not a doubt. They are so different, that they look like bits of two
different continents. Scrambling over the fence is like scrambling out
of Europe into Australia. Now, how was that difference made? Think.
Don't guess, but think. Why does the rich grass come up to the bank, and
yet not spread beyond it?

I suppose because it cannot get over.

Not get over? Would not the wind blow the seeds, and the birds carry
them? They do get over, in millions, I don't doubt, every summer.

Then why do they not grow?

Think.

Is there any difference in the soil inside and out?

A very good guess. But guesses are no use without facts. Look.

Oh, I remember now. I know now the soil of the field is brown, like the
garden; and the soil of the moor all black and peaty.

Yes. But if you dig down two or three feet, you will find the soils of
the moor and the field just the same. So perhaps the top soils were once
both alike.

I know.

Well, and what do you think about it now? I want you to look and think.
I want every one to look and think. Half the misery in the world comes
first from not looking, and then from not thinking. And I do not want
you to be miserable.

But shall I be miserable if I do not find out such little things as this.

You will be miserable if you do not learn to understand little things:
because then you will not be able to understand great things when you
meet them. Children who are not trained to use their eyes and their
common sense grow up the more miserable the cleverer they are.

Why?

Because they grow up what men call dreamers, and bigots, and fanatics,
causing misery to themselves and to all who deal with them. So I say
again, think.

Well, I suppose men must have altered the soil inside the bank.

Well done. But why do you think so?

Because, of course, some one made the bank; and the brown soil only goes
up to it.

Well, that is something like common sense. Now you will not say