[Illustration: ICE-BOUND]
Once when we were starting for our run, on a bright frosty morning, and I
was rather hoping I should be taken to the sea, I heard them say to each
other, "The Pincushion Wood; that's it; do let us go there." I wondered
what kind of place this could be but when we had scrambled through some
heather and come to this pine-wood, I saw at once why they had given it its
name. Overhead, with their needles against the blue sky, were the pines in
their dark solemn green, but under our feet the ground was bright with moss
which grew, not on stones or trunks of trees, but all by itself in round
balls, soft and firm and cushiony. You may be sure I was delighted with the
green pincushions: we gathered a quantity of them, and I took one home with
me, but though I watered it carefully, it soon lost its beauty.
These moss-balls lay at the roots of the pines, and we could pick up as
many as we pleased; but generally even the most delicate mosses grasp the
soil, and clasp their soft tendrils round the stones so firmly that you
need a knife or a sharp stone to make them loose their hold. One of the
uses of moss is to protect the rocks from the frost, and from the heavy
rains which wash them away by degrees. The roots of trees, too, are
cherished and warmed by the closely clinging mosses; and by holding the
moisture from dew and rain, they form where they grow a little bed of soft
mould, and so prepare the way for plants of larger growth.
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