The stream above-mentioned curves, after a little while, to the right, and the path changes to the opposite side. It is at this point that the extent of the wood is developed, and that we turn to go homewards. If time permit, it is well to continue awhile along the middle path in front, and visit first the Upper Carrs, which, as seen from the terrace that runs all the way from Cheadle to Baguley, are remarkably beautiful. The wood, as here disclosed, is full of invitation, and where the branches stand asunder, we see great prairies, the green grass all a-glow with red sorrel blossom, and dotted with islands of radiant white, where that giant of field flowers, the great moon-daisy, shows its pride. This noble ornament of our meadow-land, called on the other side of the Tweed the "horse-gowan," is one of the class of flowers called "compound," being made up of some hundreds of "florets" or miniature flowers, enclosed in a kind of basket. An average specimen has been found to contain five hundred and sixty, and a fine one no fewer than eight hundred. The florets are disposed in exquisite curving lines, exactly resembling the back of an engine-turned watch. What has the ingenuity of man ever devised that has not its prototype somewhere in nature? The chalice holding this remarkable flower is of the most elegant construction, and in form like an acorn-cup. Moving on by the brookside, after crossing it at the bridge, we soon enter a spacious meadow upon the left, and find ourselves again in sight of the Mersey. On the bank of the stream, just before quitting it, may be seen the wild red-currant, making, with its neighbours, the wild raspberry and the wood strawberry, a show of native fruits without parallel in this neighbourhood. The meadow is of exuberant fertility, owing to the annual flood from the river. Leaving it, we come next to a rising ground, planted with white willows, and from this emerge into a lane, and so over the brow of the hill to Northen churchyard. Northen, of course, becomes a resting-place, and a very pleasant one it is. Both church and churchyard deserve examination. The former contains a neat monument to the memory of Mr. Worthington, the planter of the poplars in the Carrs, and another with an epitaph attributed to the pen of Alexander Pope.[12] Several pretty memorials of the dead occur likewise among the tombstones outside. On one fragment there is seemingly written with green moss, the graving in the stone being entirely filled up with the plant-- ANNE - DOVG HTAR - OF - HVMFREY - SA VAGE - DYED On another are the following pretty lines:-- The cup of life just with her lips she pressed, Found the taste bitter, and declined the rest; Averse then turning from the face of day, She softly sighed her little soul away.