you some other time; and show you, too, the marks of it in every gravel
pit about here. But now, I see, you want to ask a question; and what is
it?

Do I mean to say that water has made great valleys, such as you have seen
paintings and photographs of,--valleys thousands of feet deep, among
mountains thousands of feet high?

Yes, I do. But, as I said before, I do not like you to take my word upon
trust. When you are older you shall go to the mountains, and you shall
judge for yourself. Still, I must say that I never saw a valley, however
deep, or a cliff, however high, which had not been scooped out by water;
and that even the mountain-tops which stand up miles aloft in jagged
peaks and pinnacles against the sky were cut out at first, and are being
cut and sharpened still, by little else save water, soft and hard; that
is, by rain, frost, and ice.

Water, and nothing else, has sawn out such a chasm as that through which
the ships run up to Bristol, between Leigh Wood and St. Vincent's Rocks.
Water, and nothing else, has shaped those peaks of the Matterhorn, or the
Weisshorn, or the Pic du Midi of the Pyrenees, of which you have seen
sketches and photographs. Just so water might saw out Hartford Bridge
Flat, if it had time enough, into a labyrinth of valleys, and hills, and
peaks standing alone; as it has done already by Ambarrow, and Edgbarrow,
and the Folly Hill on the other side of the vale.

I see you are astonished at the notion that water can make Alps. But it
was just because I knew you would be astonished at Madam How's doing so
great a thing with so simple a tool, that I began by showing you how she
was doing the same thing in a small way here upon these flats. For the