To F.A., In the Name Of The Children Of Fox How, This Revival Of A
Child'S Story Written Twenty-Seven Years Ago, Under The Spell Of Rotha
And Fairfield, Is Inscribed by The Writer.
After Many Years This Little Book Is Once More To See The Light. The
Children For Whom It Was Written Are Long Since Grown Up. But Perhaps
The Pleasure They Once Took In it May Still Be Felt By Some Of The
Millys And Ollys Of To-Day. Up In the Dear Mountain Country Which It
Describes, The Becks Are Still Sparkling; "Brownholme" Still Spreads Its
Green Steeps And Ferny Hollows Under Rain And Sun; The Tiny Trout Still
Leap In its Tiny Streams; And Fairfield, In its Noble Curve, Still
Girdles The Deep Valley Where These Children Played: The Valley Of
Wordsworth And Arnold--The Valley Where Arnold'S Poet-Son Rambled as A
Boy--Where, For Me, The Shy And Passionate Ghost Of Charlotte Brontë
Still Haunts The Open Door-Way Of Fox How--Where Poetry And Generous
Life And Ranging thought Still Dwell, And Bring their Benediction To The
Passers-By.
