NATURE NEAR LONDON

 
 N ATU RE 
 NEAR LONDON 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD JJ:FFERIES 
 
 AUTHOR* OF 
 
 "THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS," "THE OPBN AIR," ETC. 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTION BY 
 THOMAS COKE WATKINS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 SI 
 
 JV5" 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1907, 
 BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & Co. 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 'T is usually supposed to be necessary to go 
 far into the country to find wild birds and 
 animals in sufficient numbers to be pleasantly 
 studied. Such was certainly my own impres- 
 sion till circumstances led me, for the convenience 
 of access to London, to reside for awhile about 
 twelve miles from town. There my preconceived 
 views on the subject were quite overthrown by the 
 presence of as much bird-life as I had been accus- 
 tomed to in distant fields and woods. 
 
 First, as the spring began, came crowds of chiff- 
 chaffs and willow wrens filling the furze with 
 ceaseless flutterings. Presently a nightingale sang 
 in a hawthorn bush only just on the other side of 
 the road. One morning, on looking out of window, 
 there was a hen pheasant in the furze almost under- 
 neath. Rabbits often came out into the spaces of 
 sward between the bushes. 
 
 The furze itself became a broad surface of gold, 
 beautiful to look down upon, with islands of ten- 
 derest birch green interspersed, and willows in which 
 the sedge-reedling chattered. They used to say in 
 the country that cuckoos were getting scarce, but
 
 PREFACE 
 
 here the notes of the cuckoo echoed all day long, 
 and the birds often flew over the house. Doves 
 cooed, blackbirds whistled, thrushes sang, jays called, 
 wood-pigeons uttered the old familiar notes in the 
 little copse hard by. Even a heron went over now 
 and then, and in the evening from the window I 
 could hear partridges calling each other to roost. 
 
 Along the roads and lanes the quantity and 
 variety of life in the hedges was really astonishing. 
 Magpies, jays, woodpeckers both green and pied 
 kestrels hovering overhead, sparrow-hawks dart- 
 ing over gateways, hares by the clover, weasels on 
 the mounds, stoats at the edge of the corn. I 
 missed but two birds, the corncrake and the grass- 
 hopper lark, and found these another season. Two 
 squirrels one day ran along the palings and up into 
 a guelder-rose tree in the garden. As for the finches 
 and sparrows, their number was past calculation. 
 There was material for many years' observation, 
 and finding myself so unexpectedly in the midst 
 of these things, I was led to make the following 
 sketches, which were published in The Standard, 
 and are now reprinted by permission. 
 
 The question may be asked : Why have you not 
 indicated in every case the precise locality where 
 you were so pleased ? Why not mention the exact 
 hedge, the particular meadow ? Because no two 
 persons look at the same thing with the same eyes.
 
 E.T3K PREFACE 
 
 To me this spot may be attractive, to you another; 
 a third thinks yonder gnarled oak the most artistic. 
 Nor could I guarantee that every one should see 
 the same things under the same conditions of 
 season, time or weather. How could I arrange 
 for you next autumn to see the sprays of the horse- 
 chestnut, scarlet from frost, reflected in the dark 
 water of the brook ? There might not be any frost 
 till all the leaves had dropped. How could I 
 contrive that the cuckoos should circle round the 
 copse, the sunlight glint upon the stream, the warm 
 sweet wind come breathing over the young corn 
 just when I should wish you to feel it ? Every one 
 must find their own locality. I find a favourite 
 wild-flower here, and the spot is dear to me ; you 
 find yours yonder. Neither painter nor writer can 
 show the spectator their originals. It would be 
 very easy, too, to pass any of these places and see 
 nothing, or but little. Birds are wayward, wild 
 creatures uncertain. The tree crowded with wood- 
 pigeons one minute is empty the next. To traverse 
 the paths day by day, and week by week; to keep 
 an eye ever on the fields from year's end to year's 
 end, is the one only method of knowing what really 
 is in, or comes to them. That the sitting gambler 
 sweeps the board is true of these matters. The 
 richest locality may be apparently devoid of interest 
 just at the juncture of a chance visit.
 
 Though my preconceived ideas were overthrown 
 by the presenre of so much that was beautiful and 
 interesting close to London, yet in course of time 
 I came to understand what was at first a dim sense 
 of something wanting. In the shadiest lane, in the 
 still pinewoods, on the hills of purple heath, after 
 brief contemplation there arose a restlessness, a 
 feeling that it was essential to be moving. In no 
 grassy mead was there a nook where I could stretch 
 myself in slumberous ease and watch the swallows 
 ever wheeling, wheeling in the sky. This was the 
 unseen influence of mighty London. The strong 
 life of the vast city magnetized me, and I felt it 
 under the calm oaks. The something wanting in 
 the fields was the absolute quiet, peace, and rest 
 which dwells in the meadows and under the trees 
 and on the hilltops in the country. Under its 
 power the mind gradually yields itself to the green 
 earth, the wind among the trees, the song of birds, 
 and comes to have an understanding with them all. 
 For this it is still necessary to seek the far-away 
 glades and hollow coombes, or to sit alone beside 
 the sea. That such a sense of quiet might not be 
 lacking I have added a chapter or so on those 
 lovely downs that overlook the south coast. 
 
 R.J. 
 
 viii
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 WOODLANDS i 
 
 FOOTPATHS 16 
 
 FLOCKS OF BIRDS 32 
 
 NIGHTINGALE ROAD 46 
 
 A BROOK 63 
 
 A LONDON TROUT 78 
 
 A BARN 93 
 
 WHEATFIELDS 106 
 
 THE CROWS 120 
 
 HEATHLANDS 134 
 
 THE RIVER 147 
 
 NUTTY AUTUMN 165 
 
 ROUND A LONDON COPSE 177 
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS 196 
 
 HERBS 217 
 
 TREES ABOUT TOWN 231 
 
 To BRIGHTON 243 
 
 THE SOUTHDOWN SHEPHERD 259 
 
 THE BREEZE ON BEACHY HEAD 274
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 JCHARD JEFFERIES lived closer to 
 Nature than any other man of his 
 day. In beautiful language he has ex- 
 pressed the impressions and thoughts 
 inspired by all he beheld, the landscape, the 
 glory of the day and night, the sweep of the 
 horizon, the mood of the sea, the sky, the valleys 
 and hills, the spirit of the outer world that lay 
 about him. He not only saw, he felt Nature. 
 The wind that whistled through the grass, or 
 sighed in the tops of the dark fir trees, spoke 
 to him a mystic language. The great sun in 
 unclouded splendour, slowly passing over the up- 
 lifted hills, told him a part of their secret. He 
 was, in a word, the scribe of all Nature, and so 
 much a part of all he saw that he seems himself 
 to be the sunlight, the grass, and the air. 
 
 His life was one largely of the spirit longing 
 passionately for the fullest soul expression the 
 life more abundant. That remarkable masterpiece,
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 The Story of my Heart^ my Autobiography, gives us 
 much he would have us know ; not the events of 
 his life, his actions, nor his fortunes, but the out- 
 pouring of his innermost being ; craving through 
 the years more beauty, a keener perception, a 
 deeper interest. This longing seems to have com- 
 pletely mastered him, and in his strange autobiog- 
 raphy he poured out with what strength and skill 
 he possessed the intensity of his feelings. 
 
 " I was not more than eighteen," he says, " when 
 an inner and esoteric meaning began to come to me 
 from all the visible universe, and indefinable aspira- 
 tions filled me. I found them in the grass fields, 
 under the trees, on the hill-tops, at sunrise, and in the 
 night. There was a deeper meaning everywhere. 
 The sun burned with it ; the broad front of the 
 morning beamed with it; a deep feeling entered 
 me while gazing at the sky in the azure noon, 
 and in the starlit evening. 
 
 " I thought of the earth's firmness ; I felt it bear 
 me up; through the grassy couch there came an 
 influence as if I could feel the great earth speaking 
 to me. I thought of the wandering air; its pureness, 
 which is its beauty ; the air touched me and gave 
 me something of itself. I spoke to the sea, though 
 so far, in my mind I saw it, green at the rim of the 
 earth and blue in deeper ocean ; I desired to have 
 its strength, its mystery and glory."
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 But while we gather from this strangely beautiful 
 heart story the promptings of his real self, the mere 
 happenings of his uneventful life were so vitally for- 
 mative that it is important to be familiar with them. 
 
 Jefferies was born at the ancestral home, Coate 
 Farm, Wiltshire, England, November 6, 184.8, and 
 was a veritable son of the soil, being a descendant of 
 an old stock of yeomen. Mr. Salt, in his sympathetic 
 and intimate Study of Jefferies,describes the landscape 
 around Coate as "a country of rich grassy lowlands 
 dominated by high, bare downs ; one which is full 
 of treasure for naturalist and archaeologist alike; 
 in no other district, perhaps, could the future writer 
 of Wild Life in a Southern County have found choicer 
 material for his work. All the best characteristics 
 of typical English scenery were grouped within easy 
 distance of Richard Jefferies' birthplace. About a 
 hundred yards from the house is Coate lake, or 
 reservoir, a large sheet of water which played an 
 important part in the canoe voyages and other 
 adventures of his childhood, and is frequently re- 
 ferred to in his writings. But it was the Downs 
 in particular that influenced his youthful imagina- 
 tion ; and we are informed, on the authority of one 
 who learned it from Jefferies himself, that " it was 
 when he roamed about the long, rolling Downs that 
 he felt his life most full, his thoughts most clear, 
 his spirit most exalted and yet most at rest."
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 These early years, of lonely roaming over hill and 
 country with his gift of insight, were the most 
 important in Jefferies' life, and the unconscious 
 impressions gained were to ripen later into the full- 
 est expression of his genius. Truly " the child was 
 father to the man," but it was years before he came 
 to self-realisation with a full consciousness of the 
 truth and power within. 
 
 In early life he imagined himself a journalist, 
 and his first book, published in 1873, was a cru de 
 discourse on Reporting, Editing, and Authorship. 
 He was, we are told by his biographer, a youth of 
 a thousand foolish fancies, enthusiastic over little 
 things and not to be dismayed by constant dis- 
 appointment and failure. He wrote news items 
 for the provincial papers, and on one occasion he 
 almost discovered his real power. It was a long 
 letter to the London Times on the \Viltshire farmer, 
 which provoked much discussion; but alas! he failed 
 to grasp the advantage of this opportunity. For years 
 he struggled to make novel writing the success of his 
 life, but "he never was a novelist," says Mr. Besant 
 frankly, " he never could be." Then almost by 
 chance, after he had married and left his native 
 hamlet for "nature near London," he came to 
 realise, by slow achievement through uncertainty 
 and bitter struggle, his innate sense of beauty, 
 and to learn that as an interpreter of Nature rather
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 than of human life he was to find his place and work 
 in the world. The heart of the poet spoke at last, 
 the conscious thinker struggled into being, his 
 vivid pictures of rural life brought him the reward 
 of fame, and an appreciative portion of the world 
 read with pleasure The Life of the Fields, The Open 
 Air, Wild Life in a Southern County, and the throbbing 
 Story of my Heart. 
 
 "His mature authorship," says Mr. Salt, "dates 
 from the commencement of his five years' residence 
 at Surbiton, to which place he came in 1877 in 
 order to be nearer London, while yet preserving 
 what was to him a necessity of existence a secure 
 foothold in the country. This Surbiton period was a 
 most important one in JefFeries' career, not so much 
 because it provided material for those notable essays 
 which are comprised under the title of Nature near 
 London,zs it marked his progression from journalism 
 to literature, from observation to thought. Coate, 
 it is true, was still to be the background of his 
 finest word pictures ; but the influence of London 
 was very powerful in quickening and humanising his 
 imagination, for now for the first time he saw the 
 poetry that is in the great city as well as the poetry 
 that is in the open fields, and was able to ponder 
 deeply and fervently on the vast social problems of 
 his time. It is no mere paradox to say that he 
 learnt the message of the country by coming to the
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 town. The true significance of Nature, in its 
 bearing on human destiny, was now gradually 
 unfolded to him; and what had before been crude 
 knowledge was now ripened into wisdom." 
 
 The papers which make up this volume were 
 written for the Standard and were published early 
 in 1883. "The question may be asked," says 
 Jefferies in his preface, "why have you not indicated 
 the precise locality where you were so pleased ? 
 Why not mention the exact hedge, the particular 
 meadow ? Because no two persons look at the same 
 thing with the same eyes. To me this spot may be 
 attractive, to you another; a third may think yonder 
 gnarled oak the most artistic. Nor can I guarantee 
 that every one should see the same things under the 
 same conditions of season, time, or weather. How 
 could I arrange for you next autumn to see the 
 sprays of the horse-chestnut, scarlet from frost, 
 reflected in the dark water of the brook ? There 
 might not be any frost till all the leaves had dropped. 
 How could I contrive that the cuckoos should 
 circle round the copse, the sunlight glint upon the 
 stream, the warm sweet wind come breathing over 
 the young corn when I should wish you to feel it ? 
 Every one must find their own locality. I find a 
 favourite wild flower here and the spot is dear to me; 
 you find yours yonder. Neither painter nor writer 
 can show the spectator their originals."
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 So universal is Nature, so subtle her elusive 
 beauty, that only one with a heart open to the 
 immensity of things and the soul of a poet, could 
 perceive and feel the charm and influence of 
 Nature about mighty London. " The strong life 
 of the vast city magnetised me, and I felt it under 
 the calm oaks." " I am quite as familiar with 
 London as with the country," he wrote to a cor- 
 respondent. " Some people have the idea that my 
 knowledge is confined to the fields ; as a matter of 
 fact, I have had quite as much to do with London 
 all parts of it, too and am very fond of what 
 I may call a thickness of the people such as exists 
 there. I like the solitude of the hills, and the hum 
 of the most crowded city ; I dislike little towns and 
 villages. I dream in London quite as much as in 
 the woodlands. It's a wonderful place to dream in." 
 And London, sordid, noisy, jarring, had hints of 
 great beauty that his soul could follow. At night 
 the stars were there : " I never forget them, not 
 even in the restless Strand ; they face one coming 
 down the hill of the Haymarket ; in Trafalgar 
 Square, looking towards the high dark structure of 
 the House of Westminster, the clear bright steel 
 silver of the planet Jupiter shines unwearied, with- 
 out sparkle or flicker." 
 
 London produces its own sky, he says, and he 
 thought this sky could best be studied from the great
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 bridges, where there is some breadth of horizon. 
 " Sometimes upon Westminster Bridge at night the 
 scene is very striking. Vast rugged columns of 
 vapour rise up behind and over the towers of the 
 House, hanging with threatening aspect ; westward 
 the sky is nearly clear, with some relic of the sunset 
 glow ; the river itself, black or illuminated with the 
 electric light, imparting a silvery blue tint, crossed 
 again with the red lamps of the steamers." Of the 
 thousands that cross this bridge daily, few indeed we 
 fancy pause to think that beauty of the open air, 
 natural loveliness, may be found there. Few have 
 time to pause at all perhaps, unless they be strangers 
 lingering to take a view of the Parliament buildings 
 and the Abbey. But a Jefferies comes that way, 
 and amidst all the outward distraction and the in- 
 ward worry, the drudgery and anxiety of poverty, he 
 notes the glimpses of the divine, the deep preva- 
 lent mystery of something that lies just beyond the 
 senses, something that the senses only guess 
 something that may be felt among the lush meadows, 
 or on the breezy downs, and by the dingy London 
 riverside as well. 
 
 Even the monotony of red Bermondsey roofs was 
 suggestive to Jefferies : " These red-tiled roofs have 
 a distinctiveness, a character; they are something 
 to think about. . . . Under this surface of roofs 
 what a profundity of life there is ! " If this endless
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 succession of roofs could be found not unpleasingly 
 suggestive, it is little wonder that, standing in Trafal- 
 gar Square, the man could see much beauty before 
 him. "At my back, within the gallery, there is many 
 a canvas painted under Italian skies, in glowing 
 Spain, in bright southern France. But yet, if any 
 one impartial will stand here outside, under the 
 portico, and forgetting that it is prosaic London, 
 will look at the summer inclosed within the square, 
 and acknowledge it for itself as it is, he must admit 
 that the view light and colour, tone and shade 
 is equal to the painted canvas, is full, as it were, to 
 the brim of interest, suggestion, and delight. Trace 
 out the colour and the brightness; gaze up into the 
 sky, watch the swallows, note the sparkle of the 
 fountain, observe the distant tower chiselled with 
 the light and shade." The charm, the colour, the 
 endless variety, are there; only the seeing eye is 
 needed. It is well to be reminded sometimes, by 
 the words of a genius like Jefferies, that the elements 
 of beauty are never far to seek; if we miss them in 
 town, we are not likely to find them in the country. 
 Jefferies had been living at Surbiton, a suburb of 
 London, for four years when his illness began, in 
 1 88 1, and from that time until the end, in 1887, his 
 life was a constant fight against " three great giants, 
 disease, despair, and poverty." In all the annals of 
 literature we know of no sadder life nor more heroic
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 struggle indeed almost superhuman than these 
 last few years of JefFeries, in which through intense 
 suffering he produced his wonderfully beautiful essays, 
 unsurpassed as prose-poems by anything in the Eng- 
 lish language. 
 
 This is the brief outline of JefFeries' life. For 
 a more complete and fuller account the reader 
 is referred to The Eulogy of Richard 'Jejferies by 
 Walter Besant, and to Mr. H. S. Salt's compre- 
 hensive Study. There are no further incidents of 
 interest to record, save those of work and illness. 
 He was always a silent man, always a man of few 
 friends, always a man of simple habits, in all weathers 
 delighting to be out of doors. We are told that 
 he worked, he walked, he wrote, he walked again, 
 he read, he watched, and observed, and thought. 
 That was his life until the terrible malady fell 
 upon him. 
 
 He changed his residence several times. From 
 Surbiton he went, in 1882, to West Brighten; 
 thence, in 1884, to Eltham. Then, evidently 
 with an irresistible yearning for some place more 
 solitary, he moved again to a cottage near Crow- 
 borough Hill, the highest spot in Sussex. Again 
 he stayed for a few weeks on the Quantock Hills, 
 Somerset, his suffering increasing and his strength 
 failing. Lastly he moved to a house called "Sea 
 View," at Goring, where he died in his thirty-ninth
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 year, on August 14, 1887, and was buried in the 
 neighbouring cemetery of Broadwater. 
 
 In one of the transepts of Salisbury Cathedral is 
 a marble bust of Jefferies, placed there March 9, 
 1892, by his friends and admirers, and upon the 
 pedestal is graven this worthy tribute: 
 
 To THE MEMORY OF RlCHARD JEFFERIES, 
 BORN AT COATE IN THE PARISH OF CHISELDEN AND 
 
 COUNTY OF WILTS, 6TH NOVEMBER, 1848. 
 
 DIED AT GORING IN THE COUNTY OF SUSSEX, 
 
 i4TH AUGUST, 1887. 
 
 WHO OBSERVING THE WORK OF ALMIGHTY GOD 
 
 WITH A POET'S EYE, 
 
 HAS ENRICHED THE LITERATURE OF HIS COUNTRY, 
 
 AND WON FOR HIMSELF A PLACE AMONGST 
 
 THOSE WHO HAVE MADE MEN 
 
 HAPPIER AND WISER. 
 
 All lovers of Nature who read these essays 
 cannot fail to catch a breath of a purer, finer atmos- 
 phere from this great soul who strove through all 
 to gain sustenance for thought, and life from the 
 mere contemplation and absorption of natural 
 beauty. To him an undiscovered country lay in 
 the world about our feet, an unknown magic dwelt
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 in sun and stars to lift the soul unto unimaginable 
 altitudes. 
 
 " Still glides the stream and shall for ever glide ; 
 The Form remains, the Function never dies ; 
 While we the brave, the mighty, and the wise, 
 We men, who in our morn of youth defied 
 The elements, must vanish ; be it so ! 
 Enough, if something from our hands have power 
 To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; 
 And if, as toward the silent land we go, 
 Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent 
 
 dower, 
 We feel that we are greater than we know." 
 
 T. C. W. 
 
 xxii
 
 &-- .-js;:;* - -JT^ .< >:::;. *-< >;:-' >". -< >r 
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 WOODLANDS 
 
 ^HE tiny white petals of the barren 
 strawberry open under the April sun- 
 shine which, as yet unchecked by 
 crowded foliage above, can reach the 
 moist banks under the trees. It is then that the 
 first stroll of the year should be taken in Claygate- 
 lane. The slender runners of the strawberries trail 
 over the mounds among the moss, some of the 
 flowers but just above the black and brown leaves 
 of last year which fill the shallow ditch. These 
 will presently be hidden under the grass which is 
 pushing up long blades and bending over like a 
 plume. 
 
 Crimson stalks and leaves of herb Robert stretch 
 across the little cavities of the mound ; lower, and 
 rising almost from the water of the ditch, the wild 
 parsnip spreads its broad fan. Slanting among the 
 underwood, against which it leans, the dry white 
 " gix " (cow-parsnip) of last year has rotted from 
 its root, and is only upheld by branches.
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON S-^K 
 
 Yellowish green cup-like leaves are forming 
 upon the brown and drooping heads of the spurge, 
 which, sheltered by the bushes, has endured the 
 winter's frosts. The lads pull them off, and break 
 the stems, to watch the white " milk " well up, the 
 whole plant being full of acrid juice. Whorls of 
 woodruff and grass-like leaves of stitchwort are 
 rising ; the latter holds but feebly to the earth, and 
 even in snatching the flower the roots sometimes 
 give way and the plant is lifted with it. 
 
 Upon either hand the mounds are so broad that 
 they in places resemble covers rather than hedges, 
 thickly grown with bramble and briar, hazel and 
 hawthorn, above which the straight trunks of 
 young oaks and Spanish chestnuts stand in crowded 
 but careless ranks. The leaves which dropped in 
 the preceding autumn from these trees still lie 
 on the ground under the bushes, dry and brittle, and 
 the blackbirds searching about among them cause 
 as much rustling as if some animal were routing 
 about. 
 
 As the month progresses, these wide mounds 
 become completely green, hawthorn and bramble, 
 briar and hazel, put forth their leaves, and the eye 
 can no longer see into the recesses. But above, 
 the oaks and edible chestnuts are still dark and 
 leafless, almost black by contrast with the vivid 
 green beneath them. Upon their bare boughs the
 
 WOODLANDS 
 
 birds are easily seen, but the moment they descend 
 among the bushes are difficult to find. Chaffinches 
 call and challenge continually these trees are 
 their favourite resort and yellowhammers flit 
 along the underwood. 
 
 Behind the broad hedge are the ploughed fields 
 they love, alternating with meadows down whose 
 hedges again a stream of birds is always flowing to 
 the lane. Bright as are the colours of the yellow- 
 hammer, when he alights among the brown clods 
 of the ploughed field he is barely visible, for brown 
 conceals like vapour. A white butterfly comes 
 fluttering along the lane, and as it passes under a 
 tree a chaffinch swoops down and snaps at it, but 
 rises again without doing apparent injury, for the 
 butterfly continues its flight. 
 
 From an oak overhead comes the sweet slender 
 voice of a linnet, the sunshine falling on his rosy 
 breast. The gateways show the thickness of the 
 hedge, as an embrasure shows the thickness of a 
 wall. One gives entrance to an arable field which 
 has been recently rolled, and along the gentle rise 
 of a " land " a cock-pheasant walks, so near that 
 the ring about his neck is visible. Presently, be- 
 coming conscious that he is observed, he goes down 
 into a furrow, and is then hidden. 
 
 The next gateway, equally deep-set between the 
 bushes, opens on a pasture, where the docks of 
 3
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 last year still cumber the ground, and bunches of 
 rough grass and rushes are scattered here and there. 
 A partridge separated from his mate is calling 
 across the field, and comes running over the short 
 sward as his companion answers. With his neck 
 held high and upright, stretched to see around, he 
 looks larger than would be supposed, as he runs 
 swiftly, threading his way through the tufts, the 
 docks, and the rushes. But suddenly noticing that 
 the gateway is not clear, he crouches, and is con- 
 cealed by the grass. 
 
 Some distance further there is a stile, sitting 
 upon which the view ranges over two adjacent 
 meadows. They are bounded by a copse of ash 
 stoles and young oak trees, and the lesser of the 
 meads is full of rush bunches and dotted with green 
 ant-hills. Among these, just beyond gunshot, two 
 rabbits are feeding; pausing and nibbling till they 
 have eaten the tcnderest blades, and then leisurely 
 hopping a yard or so to another spot. Later on in 
 the summer this little meadow which divides the 
 lane from the copse is alive with rabbits. 
 
 Along the hedge the brake fern has then grown, 
 in the corner by the copse there is a beautiful mass 
 of it, and several detached bunches away from the 
 hedge among the ant-hills. From out of the fern, 
 which is a favourite retreat with them, rabbits are 
 continually coming, feeding awhile, darting after 
 4
 
 WOODLANDS 
 
 each other, and back again to cover. To-day there 
 are but three, and they do not venture far from 
 their buries. 
 
 Watching these, a green woodpecker cries in 
 the copse, and immediately afterwards flies across 
 the mead and away to another plantation. Occa- 
 sionally the spotted woodpecker may be seen here, 
 a little bird which, in the height of summer, is 
 lost among the foliage, but in spring and winter 
 can be observed tapping at the branches of the 
 trees. 
 
 I think I have seen more spotted woodpeckers 
 near London than in far distant and nominally 
 wilder districts. This lane, for some two miles, 
 is lined on each side with trees, and, besides this 
 particular copse, there are several others close by ; 
 indeed, stretching across the country to another 
 road, there is a succession of copses, with meadows 
 between. Birds which love trees are naturally 
 seen flitting to and fro in the lane ; the trees are at 
 present young, but as they grow older and decay 
 they will be still more resorted to. 
 
 Jays screech in the trees of the lane almost all 
 the year round, though more frequently in spring 
 and autumn, but I rarely walked here without see- 
 ing or hearing one. Beyond the stile the lane 
 descends into a hollow, and is bordered by a small 
 furze common, where, under shelter of the hollow 
 5
 
 2&^K NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 brambles and beneath the golden bloom of the furze, 
 the pale anemones flower. 
 
 When the June roses open their petals on the 
 briars, and the scent of new-mown hay is wafted 
 over the hedge from the meadows, the lane seems 
 to wind through a continuous wood. The oaks 
 and chestnuts, though too young to form a com- 
 plete arch, cross their green branches, and cast a 
 delicious shadow. For it is in the shadow that we 
 enjoy the summer, looking forth from the gateway 
 upon the mowing-grass where the glowing sun 
 pours down his fiercest beams. 
 
 Tall bennets and red sorrel rise above the grass, 
 white ox-eye daisies chequer it below ; the distant 
 hedge quivers as the air, set in motion by the in- 
 tense heat, runs along. The sweet murmuring 
 coo of the turtledove comes from the copse, and 
 the rich notes of the blackbird from the oak into 
 which he has mounted to deliver them. 
 
 Slight movements in the hawthorn, or in the 
 depths of the tall hedge grasses, movements too 
 quick for the glance to catch their cause, are where 
 some tiny bird is passing from spray to spray. It 
 may be a whitethroat creeping among the nettles 
 after his wont, or a wren. The spot where he 
 was but a second since may be traced by the trem- 
 bling of the leaves, but the keenest attention may 
 fail to detect where he is now. That slight 
 6
 
 WOODLANDS 
 
 motion in the hedge, however, conveys an impres- 
 sion of something living everywhere within. 
 
 There are birds in the oaks overhead whose 
 voice is audible though they are themselves unseen. 
 From out of the mowing-grass finches rise. and fly 
 to the hedge ; from the hedge again others fly out, 
 and descending into the grass, are concealed as in 
 a forest. A thrush travelling along the hedgerow 
 just outside goes by the gateway within a yard. 
 Bees come upon the light wind, gliding with it, 
 but with their bodies aslant across the line of 
 current. Butterflies flutter over the mowing-grass, 
 hardly clearing the bennets. Many-coloured insects 
 creep up the sorrel stems and take wing from the 
 summit. 
 
 Everything gives forth a sound of life. The 
 twittering of swallows from above, the song of 
 greenfinches in the trees, the rustle of hawthorn 
 sprays moving under the weight of tiny creatures, 
 the buzz upon the breeze ; the very flutter of the 
 butterflies' wings, noiseless as it is, and the wavy 
 movement of the heated air across the field cause 
 a sense of motion and of music. 
 
 The leaves are enlarging, and the sap rising, and 
 the hard trunks of the trees swelling with its flow ; 
 the grass blades pushing upwards ; the seeds com- 
 pleting their shape ; the tinted petals uncurling. 
 Dreamily listening, leaning on the gate, all these
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 are audible to the inner senses, while the ear fol- 
 lows the midsummer hum, now sinking, now so- 
 norously increasing over the oaks. An effulgence 
 fills the southern boughs, which the eye cannot 
 sustain, but which it knows is there. 
 
 The sun at his meridian pours forth his light, 
 forgetting, in all the inspiration of his strength and 
 glory, that without an altar screen of green his love 
 must scorch. Joy in life ; joy in life. The ears 
 listen, and want more ; the eyes are gratified with 
 gazing, and desire yet further ; the nostrils are 
 filled with the sweet odours of flower and sap. 
 The touch, too, has its pleasures, dallying with leaf 
 and flower. Can you not almost grasp the odour- 
 laden air and hold it in the hollow of the hand ? 
 
 Leaving the spot at last, and turning again into 
 the lane, the shadows dance upon the white dust 
 under the feet, irregularly circular spots of light 
 surrounded with umbra shift with the shifting 
 branches. By the wayside lie rings of dandelion 
 stalks, carelessly cast down by the child who made 
 them, and tufts of delicate grasses gathered for 
 their beauty but now sprinkled with dust. Wisps 
 of hay hang from the bower boughs of the oaks 
 where they brushed against the passing load. 
 
 After a time, when the corn is ripening, the 
 herb betony flowers on the mounds under the oaks. 
 Following the lane down the hill and across the 
 8
 
 WOODLANDS 
 
 small furze common at the bottom, the marks of 
 traffic fade away, the dust ceases, and is succeeded 
 by sward. The hedgerows on either side are here 
 higher than ever, and are thickly fringed with 
 bramble bushes, which- sometimes encroach on the 
 waggon ruts in the middle, and are covered with 
 flowers, and red and green and ripe blackberries 
 together. 
 
 Green rushes line the way, and green dragon- 
 flies dart above them. Thistledown is pouting 
 forth from the swollen tops of thistles crowded with 
 seed. In a gateway the turf has been worn away 
 by waggon wheels and the hoofs of cart-horses, 
 and the dry heat has pulverised the crumbling ruts. 
 Three hen pheasants and a covey of partridges 
 that have been dusting themselves here move away 
 without much haste at the approach of footsteps 
 the pheasants into the thickets, and the partridges 
 through the gateway. The shallow holes in which 
 they were sitting can be traced on the dust, and 
 there are a few small feathers lying about. 
 
 A barley field is within the gate ; the mowers 
 have just begun to cut it on the opposite side. 
 Next to it is a wheatfield; the wheat has been 
 cut and stands in shocks. From the stubble by 
 the nearest shock two turtledoves rise, alarmed, 
 and swiftly fly towards a wood which bounds the 
 field. This wood, indeed, upon looking again, 
 9
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 clearly bounds not this field only, but the second 
 and the third, and so far as the eye can see over 
 the low hedges of the corn, the trees continue. 
 The green lane, as it enters the wood, becomes 
 wilder and rougher at every step, widening, too, 
 considerably. 
 
 In the centre the wheels of timber carriages, 
 heavily laden wifh trunks of trees which were 
 dragged through by straining teams in the rainy days 
 of spring, have left vast ruts, showing that they 
 must have sunk to the axle in the soft clay. These 
 then filled with water, and on the water duckweed 
 grew and aquatic grasses at the sides. Summer 
 heats have evaporated the water, leaving the weeds 
 and grasses prone upon the still moist earth. 
 
 Rushes have sprung up and mark the line of the 
 ruts, and willow stoles, bramble bushes, and thorns 
 growing at the side, make, as it were, a third hedge 
 in the middle of the lane. The best path is by the 
 wood itself, but even there occasional leaps are 
 necessary over pools of dark water full of vegeta- 
 tion. These alternate with places where the ground, 
 being higher, yawns with wide cracks crumbling at 
 the edge, the heat causing the clay to split and open. 
 In winter it must be an impassable quagmire ; now 
 it is dry and arid. 
 
 Rising out of this low-lying spot, the lane again 
 becomes green and pleasant, and is crossed by an-
 
 WOODL AN DS 
 
 other. At the meeting of these four ways some 
 boughs hang over a green bank where I have often 
 rested. In front the lane is barred by a gate, but 
 beyond the gate it still continues its straight course 
 into the wood. To the left the track, crossing at 
 right angles, also proceeds into the wood, but it is 
 so overhung with trees and blocked by bushes that 
 its course after the first hundred yards or so can- 
 not be traced. 
 
 To the right the track a little wider and 
 clearer of bushes extends through wood, and as 
 it is straight and rises up a gentle slope, the eye can 
 travel along it half a mile. There is nothing but 
 wood around. This track to the right appears 
 the most used, and has some ruts in the centre. 
 The sward each side is concealed by endless this- 
 tles, on the point of sending forth clouds of thistle- 
 down, and to which presently the goldfinches will 
 be attracted. 
 
 Occasionally a movement among the thistles 
 betrays the presence of a rabbit ; only occasionally, 
 for though the banks are drilled with buries, the 
 lane is too hot for them at midday. Particles of 
 rabbits' fur lie on the ground, and their runs are 
 visible in every direction. But there are no birds. 
 A solitary robin, indeed, perches on an ash branch 
 opposite, and regards me thoughtfully. It is im- 
 possible to go anywhere in the open air without a
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON s=^S 
 
 robin ; they are the very spies of the woods. But 
 there are no thrushes, no blackbirds, finches, nor 
 even sparrows. 
 
 In August it is true most birds cease to sing, but 
 sitting thus partially hidden and quiet, if there were 
 any about something would be heard of them. 
 There would be a rustling, a thrush would fly 
 across the lane, a blackbird would appear by the 
 gateway yonder in the shadow which he loves, a 
 finch would settle in the oaks. None of these 
 incidents occur; none of the lesser signs of life in 
 the foliage, the tremulous spray, the tap of a bill 
 cleaned by striking first one side and then the other 
 against a bough, the rustle of a wing nothing. 
 
 There are woods, woods, woods ; but no birds. 
 Yonder a drive goes straight into the ash poles, it is 
 green above and green below, but a long watch will 
 reveal nothing living. The dry mounds must be 
 full of rabbits, there must be pheasants somewhere ; 
 but nothing visible. Once only a whistling sound 
 in the air directs the glance upwards ; it is a wood- 
 pigeon flying at full speed. There are no bees, 
 for there are no flowers. There are no butterflies. 
 The black flies are not numerous, and rarely require 
 a fanning from the ash spray carried to drive 
 them off! 
 
 Two large dragon-flies rush up and down, and 
 cross the lane, and rising suddenly almost to the
 
 WOODLANDS 
 
 tops of the oaks, swoop down again in bold sweep- 
 ing curves. The broad, deep ditch between the 
 lane and the mound of the wood is dry, but there 
 are no short rustling sounds of mice. 
 
 The only sound is the continuous singing of the 
 grasshoppers, and the peculiar snapping noise they 
 make as they spring, leaping along the sward. 
 The fierce sun of the ripe wheat pours down a 
 fiery glow scarcely to be borne except under the 
 boughs ; the hazel leaves already have lost their 
 green, the tips of the rushes are shrivelling, the 
 grass becoming brown ; it is a scorched and 
 parched desert of wood. 
 
 The finches have gone forth in troops to the 
 stubble where the wheat has been cut, and where 
 they can revel on the seeds of the weeds now ripe. 
 Thrushes and blackbirds have gone to the streams, 
 to splash and bathe, and to the mown meadows, 
 where in the short aftermath they can find their 
 food. There they will look out on the shady side 
 of the hedge as the sun declines, six or eight 
 perhaps of them along the same hedge, but all in 
 the shadow, where the dew forms first as the 
 evening falls, where the grass feels cool and moist, 
 while still on the sunny side it is warm and dry. 
 
 The bees are busy on the heaths and along the 
 hill-tops, where there are still flowers and honey, 
 and the butterflies are with them. So the woods 
 13
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON ig-^-m 
 
 are silent, still, and deserted, save by a stray rabbit 
 among the thistles, and the grasshoppers ceaselessly 
 leaping in the grass. 
 
 Returning presently to the gateway just outside 
 the wood, where upon first coming the pheasants 
 and partridges were dusting themselves, a waggon 
 is now passing among the corn and is being laden 
 with the sheaves. But afar off, across the broad 
 field and under the wood, it seems somehow only 
 a part of the silence and the solitude. The men 
 with it move about the stubble, calmly toiling ; 
 the horses, having drawn it a little way, become 
 motionless, reposing as they stand, every line of 
 their large limbs expressing delight in physical ease 
 and idleness. 
 
 Perhaps the heat has made the men silent, for 
 scarcely a word is spoken ; if it were, in the still- 
 ness it must be heard, though they are at some 
 distance. The wheels, well greased for the heavy 
 harvest work, do not creak. Save an occasional 
 monosyllable, as the horses are ordered on, or to 
 stop, and a faint rustling of straw, there is no sound. 
 It may be the flood of brilliant light, or the mirage 
 of the heat, but in some way the waggon and its 
 rising load, the men and the horses, have an un- 
 reality of appearance. 
 
 The yellow wheat and stubble, the dull yellow 
 of the waggon, toned down by years of weather, 
 14
 
 WOODLANDS 
 
 the green woods near at hand, darkening in the 
 distance and slowly changing to blue, the cloudless 
 sky, the heat-suffused atmosphere, in which things 
 seem to float rather than to grow or stand, the 
 shadowless field, all are there, and yet are not 
 there, but far away and vision-like. The waggon, 
 at last laden, travels away, and seems rather to 
 disappear of itself than to be hidden by the trees. 
 It is an effort to awake and move from the spot. 
 
 15
 
 FOOTPATHS 
 
 " *A L WA YS get over a stile," is the one rule 
 a\ \ that should ever be borne in mind by 
 /f==\ \ those who wish to see the land as it 
 */L > \ really is that is to say, never omit 
 to explore a footpath, for never was there a foot- 
 path yet which did not pass something of interest. 
 
 In the meadows everything comes pressing 
 lovingly up to the path. The small-leaved clover 
 can scarce be driven back by frequent footsteps 
 from endeavouring to cover the bare earth of the 
 centre. Tall buttercups, round whose stalks the 
 cattle have carefully grazed, stand in ranks ; strong 
 ox-eye daisies, with broad white disks and torn 
 leaves, form with the grass the tricolour of the 
 pasture white, green, and gold. 
 
 When the path enters the mowing-grass, ripe 
 for the scythe, the simplicity of these cardinal hues 
 is lost in the multitude of shades and the addition 
 of other colours. The surface of mowing-grass 
 is indeed made up of so many tints that at the first 
 glance it is confusing; and hence, perhaps, it is 
 that hardly ever has an artist succeeded in getting 
 16
 
 FOOTPATHS 
 
 the effect upon canvas. Of the million blades of 
 grass no two are of the same shade. 
 
 Pluck a handful and spread them out side by 
 side and this is at once evident. Nor is any single 
 blade the same shade all the way up. There may 
 be a faint yellow towards the root, a full green 
 about the middle, at the tip perhaps the hot sun 
 has scorched it, and there is a trace of brown. 
 The older grass, which comes up earliest, is dis- 
 tinctly different in tint from that which has but 
 just reached its greatest height, and in which the 
 sap has not yet stood still. 
 
 Under all there is the new grass, short, sweet, 
 and verdant, springing up fresh between the old, 
 and. giving a tone to the rest as- you look down 
 into the bunches. Some blades are nearly grey, 
 some the palest green, and among them others, 
 torn from the roots perhaps by rooks searching for 
 grubs, are quite white. The very track of a rook 
 through the grass leaves a different shade each 
 side, as the blades are bent or trampled down. 
 
 The stalks of the bennets vary, some green, 
 some yellowish, some brown, some approaching 
 whiteness, according to age and the condition of 
 the sap. Their tops, too, are never the same, 
 whether the pollen clings to the surface or whether 
 it has gone. Here the green is almost lost in red, 
 or quite; here the grass has a soft, velvety look; 
 
 a 17
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 yonder it is hard and wiry, and again graceful and 
 drooping. Here there are bunches so rankly ver- 
 dant that no flower is visible and no other tint but 
 dark green ; here it is thin and short, and the 
 flowers, and almost the turf itself, can be seen ; 
 then there is an array of bennets (stalks which 
 bear the grass-seed) with scarcely any grass proper. 
 
 Every variety of grass and they are many 
 has its own colour, and every.blade of every variety 
 has its individual variations of that colour. The 
 rain falls, and there is a darker tint at large upon 
 the field, fresh but darker ; the sun shines and at 
 first the hue is lighter, but presently, if the heat last, 
 a brown comes. The wind blows, and immediately, 
 as the waves of grass roll across the meadow, a 
 paler tint follows it. 
 
 A clouded sky dulls the herbage, a cloudless 
 heaven brightens it, so that the grass almost reflects 
 the firmament like water. At sunset the rosy rays 
 bring out every tint of red or purple. At noon- 
 day watch as alternate shadow and sunshine come 
 one after the other as the clouds are wafted over. 
 By moonlight perhaps the white ox-eyed daisies 
 show the most. But never will you find the 
 mowing-^grass in the same field looking twice 
 alike. 
 
 Come again the day after to-morrow only, and 
 there is a change ; some of the grass is riper, some 
 18
 
 FOOTPATHS 
 
 is thicker, with further blades which have pushed 
 up, some browner. Cold northern winds cause it 
 to wear a dry, withered aspect ; under warm 
 showers it visibly opens itself; in a hurricane it 
 tosses itself wildly to and fro ; it laughs under the 
 sunshine. 
 
 There are thick bunches by the footpath, which 
 hang over and brush the feet. While approaching 
 there seems nothing there except grass, but in the 
 act of passing, and thus looking straight down into 
 them, there are blue eyes at the bottom gazing up. 
 These specks of blue sky hidden in the grass 
 tempt the hand to gather them, but then you can- 
 not gather the whole field. 
 
 Behind the bunches where the grass is thinner 
 are the heads of purple clover ; pluck one of these, 
 and while meditating draw forth petal after petal 
 and imbibe the honey with the lips till nothing 
 remains but the green framework, like stolen jew- 
 ellery from which the gems have been taken. 
 Torn pink ragged robins through whose petals 
 a comb seems to have been remorselessly dragged, 
 blue scabious, red knapweeds, yellow rattles, yellow 
 vetchings by the hedge, white flowering parsley, 
 white campions, yellow tormentil, golden butter- 
 cups, white cuckoo-flowers, dandelions, yarrow, 
 and so on, all carelessly sown broadcast without 
 order or method, just as negligently as they are 
 19
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 named here, first remembered, first mentioned, and 
 many forgotten. 
 
 Highest and coarsest of texture, the red-tipped 
 sorrel a crumbling red so thick and plentiful 
 that at sunset the whole mead becomes reddened. 
 If these were in any way set in order or design, 
 howsoever entangled, the eye might, as it were, 
 get at them for reproduction. But just where 
 there should be flowers there are none, whilst in 
 odd places where there are none required there are 
 plenty. 
 
 In hollows, out of sight till stumbled on, is a 
 mass of colour; on the higher foreground only a 
 dull brownish green. Walk all round the meadow, 
 and still no vantage point can be found where 
 the herbage groups itself, whence a scheme of 
 colour is perceivable. There is no " artistic " 
 arrangement anywhere. 
 
 So, too, with the colours of the shades of 
 green something has already been said and here 
 are bright blues and bright greens, yellows and 
 pinks, positive discords and absolute antagonisms 
 of tint side by side, yet without jarring the eye. 
 Green all round, the trees and hedges ; blue over- 
 head, the sky ; purple and gold westward, where 
 the sun sinks. No part of this grass can be 
 represented by a blur or broad streak of colour, for 
 it is not made up of broad streaks. It is composed
 
 FOOTPATHS 
 
 of innumerable items of grass blade and flower, 
 each in itself coloured and different from its neigh- 
 bour. Not one of these must be slurred over if 
 you wish to get the same effect. 
 
 Then there are drifting specks of colour which 
 cannot be fixed. Butterflies, white, parti-coloured, 
 brown, and spotted, and light blue flutter along 
 beside the footpath ; two white ones wheel about 
 each other, rising higher at every turn till they 
 are lost and no more to be distinguished against 
 a shining white cloud. Large dark humble-bees 
 roam slowly, and honey bees with more decided 
 flight. Glistening beetles, green and gold, run 
 across the bare earth of the path, coming from one 
 crack in the dry ground and disappearing in the 
 (to them) mighty chasm of another. 
 
 Tiny green " hoppers" odd creatures shaped 
 something like the fancy frogs of children's story- 
 books alight upon it after a spring, and pausing 
 a second, with another toss themselves as high as 
 the highest bennet (veritable elm trees by com- 
 parison), to fall anywhere out of sight in the grass. 
 Reddish ants hurry over. Time is money ; and 
 their business brooks no delay. 
 
 Bee-like flies of many stripes and parti-coloured 
 robes face you, suspended in the air with wings 
 vibrating so swiftly as to be unseen ; then suddenly 
 jerk themselves a few yards, to recommence hover-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 ing. A greenfinch rises with a yellow gleam and 
 a sweet note from the grass, and is off with some- 
 thing for his brood, or a starling, solitary now, for 
 his mate is in the nest, startled from his questing, 
 goes straight away. 
 
 Dark starlings, greenfinch, gilded fly, glistening 
 beetle, blue butterfly, humble-bee with scarf about 
 his thick waist, add their moving dots of colour 
 to the surface. There is no design, no balance, 
 nothing like a pattern perfect on the right-hand 
 side, and exactly equal on the left-hand. Even 
 trees which have some semblance of balance in 
 form are not really so, and as you walk round 
 them so their outline changes. 
 
 Now the path approaches a stile set deep in 
 thorns and brambles, and hardly to be gained for 
 curved hooks and prickles. But on the briars 
 June roses bloom, arches of flowers over nettles, 
 burdock, and rushes in the ditch beneath. Sweet 
 roses buds yet unrolled, white and conical ; roses 
 half open and pink tinted ; roses widespread, the 
 petals curling backwards on the hedge, abandoning 
 their beauty to the sun. In the pasture over the 
 stile a roan cow feeds unmoved, calmly content, 
 gathering the grass with rough tongue. It is not 
 only what you actually see along the path, but 
 what you remember to have seen, that gives it its 
 beauty.
 
 FOOTPATHS 
 
 From hence the path skirts the hedge enclosing 
 a copse, part of which had been cut in the winter, 
 so that a few weeks since in spring the bluebells 
 could be seen, instead of being concealed by the 
 ash branches and the woodbine. Among them 
 grew one with white bells, like a lily, solitary in 
 the midst of the azure throng. A " drive," or 
 green lane passing between the ash stoles, went 
 into the copse, with tufts of tussocky grass on 
 either side and rush bunches, till further away the 
 overhanging branches, where the poles were uncut, 
 hid its course. 
 
 Already the grass has hidden the ruts left by the 
 timber carriages the last came by on May-day 
 with ribbons of orange, red, and blue on the 
 horses' heads for honour of the day. Another, 
 which went past in the wintry weeks of the early 
 year, was drawn by a team wearing the ancient 
 harness with bells under high hoods, or belfries, 
 bells well attuned, too, and not far inferior to those 
 rung by handbell men. The beat of the three 
 horses' hoofs sounds like the drum that marks time 
 to the chime upon their backs. Seldom, even in 
 the far away country, can that pleasant chime be 
 heard. 
 
 But now the timber is all gone, the ruts are 
 hidden, and the tall spruce firs, whose graceful 
 branches were then almost yellow with young 
 23
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 needles on the tip, are now clothed in fresh green. 
 On the bank there is a flower which is often 
 gathered for the forget-me-not, and is not unlike 
 it at the first glance ; but if the two be placed side 
 by side, this, the scorpion grass, is but a pale 
 imitation of the true plant ; its petals vary in 
 colour and are often dull, and it has not the yellow 
 central spot. Yet it is not unfrequently sold in 
 pots in the shops as forget-me-not. It flowers on 
 the bank, high above the water of the ditch. 
 
 The true forget-me-not can hardly be seen in 
 passing, so much does it nestle under flags and 
 behind sedges, and it is not easy to gather because 
 it flowers on the very verge of the running stream. 
 The shore is bordered with matted vegetation, 
 aquatic grass, and flags and weeds, and outside 
 these, where its leaves are washed and purified by 
 the clear stream, its blue petals open. Be cautious, 
 therefore, in reaching for the forget-me-not, lest 
 the bank be treacherous. 
 
 It was near this copse that in early spring I 
 stayed to gather some white sweet violets, for the 
 true wild violet is very nearly white. I stood close 
 to a hedger and ditcher, who, standing on a board, 
 was cleaning out the mud that the water might run 
 freely. He went on with his work, taking not the 
 least notice of an idler, but intent upon his labour, 
 as a good and true man should be. But when I 
 24
 
 FOOTPATHS 
 
 spoke to him he answered me in clear, well-chosen 
 language, well pronounced, " in good set terms." 
 
 No slurring of consonants and broadening of 
 vowels, no involved and backward construction de- 
 pending on the listener's previous knowledge for 
 comprehension, no half sentences indicating rather 
 than explaining, but correct sentences. With his 
 shoes almost covered by the muddy water, his 
 hands black and grimy, his brown face splashed 
 with mud, leaning on his shovel, he stood and talked 
 from the deep ditch, not much more than head and 
 shoulders visible above it. It seemed a voice from 
 the very earth, speaking of education, change, and 
 possibilities. 
 
 The copse is now filling up with undergrowth ; 
 the brambles are spreading, the briars extending, 
 masses of nettles, and thistles like saplings in size 
 and height, crowding the spaces between the ash 
 stoles. By the banks great cow-parsnips, or " gix," 
 have opened their broad heads of white flowers ; 
 teazles have lifted themselves into view, every 
 opening is occupied. There is a scent of elder 
 flowers, the meadow-sweet is pushing up and will 
 soon be out, and an odour of new-mown hay floats 
 on the breeze. 
 
 From the oak green caterpillars slide down 
 threads of their own making to the bushes below, 
 but they are running terrible risk. For a pair of
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 whitethroats or " nettle-creepers " are on the 
 watch, and seize the green creeping things cross- 
 ways in their beaks. Then they perch on a branch 
 three or four yards only from where I stand, silent 
 and motionless, and glance first at me and next at 
 a bush of bramble which projects out to the edge 
 of the footpath. So long as my eyes are turned 
 aside, or half closed, the bird perches on the branch, 
 gaining confidence every moment. The instant I 
 open my eyes, or move them, or glance towards 
 him, without either movement of head, hand, or 
 foot, he is ofF to the oak. 
 
 His tiny eyes are intent on mine ; the moment 
 he catches my glance he retires. But in half a 
 minute affection brings him back, still with the 
 caterpillar in his beak, to the same branch. Whilst 
 I have patience to look the other way there he 
 stays, but again a glance sends him away. This 
 is repeated four or five times, till, finally, convinced 
 that I mean no harm, and yet timorous and fearful 
 of betrayal even in the act, he dives down into the 
 bramble bush. 
 
 After a brief interval he reappears on the other 
 side of it, having travelled through and left his 
 prey with his brood in the nest there. Assured by 
 his success, his mate follows now, and once having 
 done it, they continue to bring caterpillars, appar- 
 ently as fast as they can pass between the trees and 
 26
 
 FOOTPATHS 
 
 the bush. They always enter the bush, which is 
 scarcely two yards from me, on one side, pass 
 through in the same direction, and emerge on the 
 other side, having thus regular places of entrance 
 and exit. 
 
 As I stand watching these birds, a flock of rooks 
 goes over, they have left the nesting trees, and fly 
 together again. Perhaps this custom of nesting 
 together in adjacent trees and using the same one 
 year after year is not so free from cares and jeal- 
 ousies as the solitary plan of the little whitethroats 
 here. Last March I was standing near a rookery, 
 noting the contention and quarrelling, the down- 
 right tyranny, and brigandage which is carried on 
 there. The very sound of the cawing, sharp and 
 angry, conveys the impression of hate and envy. 
 
 Two rooks in succession flew to a nest the 
 owners of which were absent, and deliberately 
 picked a great part of it to pieces, taking the twigs 
 for their own use. Unless the rook, therefore, be 
 ever in his castle, his labour is torn down, and, as 
 with men in the fierce struggle for wealth, the 
 meanest advantages are seized on. So strong is 
 the rook's bill that he tears living twigs of some 
 size with it from the bough. The whitethroats 
 were without such envy and contention. 
 
 From hence the footpath, leaving the copse, 
 descends into a hollow, with a streamlet flowing 
 27
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 through a little meadow, barely an acre, with a 
 pollard oak in the centre, the rising ground on two 
 sides shutting out all but the sky, and on the third 
 another wood. Such a dreamy hollow might be 
 painted for a glade in the Forest of Arden, and 
 there on the sward and leaning against the ancient 
 oak one might read the play through without being 
 disturbed by a single passer-by. A few steps 
 further and the stile opens on a road. 
 
 There the teams travel with rows of brazen 
 spangles down their necks, some with a wheat-sheaf 
 for design, some with a swan. The road itself, if 
 you follow it, dips into a valley where the horses 
 must splash through the water of a brook spread 
 out some fifteen or twenty yards wide ; for, after 
 the primitive Surrey fashion, there is no bridge for 
 waggons. A narrow wooden structure bears foot- 
 passengers ; you cannot but linger half across and 
 look down into its clear stream. Up the current 
 where it issues from the fields and falls over a slight 
 obstacle the sunlight plays and glances. 
 
 A great hawthorn bush grows on the bank : in 
 spring, white with may ; in autumn, red with 
 haws or peggles. To the shallow shore of the 
 brook, where it washes the flints and moistens the 
 dust, the house-martins come for mortar. A con- 
 stant succession of birds arrive all day long to 
 drink at the clear stream, often alighting on the 
 28
 
 FOOTPATHS 
 
 fragments of chalk and flint which stand in the 
 water, and are to them as rocks. 
 
 Another footpath leads from the road across 
 the meadows to where the brook is spanned by the 
 strangest bridge, built of brick, with one arch, but 
 only just wide enough for a single person to walk, 
 and with parapets only four or five inches high. 
 It is thrown aslant the stream, and not straight 
 across it, and has a long brick approach. It is not 
 unlike on a small scale the bridges seen in 
 views of Eastern travel. Another path leads to a 
 hamlet, consisting of a church, a farmhouse, and 
 three or four cottages a veritable hamlet in every 
 sense of the word. 
 
 In a village a few miles distant, as you walk 
 between cherry and pear orchards, you pass a little 
 shop the sweets and twine and trifles are such 
 as may be seen in similar windows a hundred miles 
 distant. There is the very wooden measure for 
 nuts, which has been used time out of mind, in the 
 distant country. Out again into the road as the 
 sun sinks, and westwards the wind lifts a cloud of 
 dust, which is lit up and made rosy by the rays 
 passing through it. For such is the beauty of the 
 sunlight that it can impart a glory even to dust. 
 
 Once more, never go by a stile (that does not 
 look private) without getting over it and following 
 the path. But they all end in one place. After 
 29
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 rambling across furze and heath, or through dark 
 fir woods ; after lingering in the meadows among 
 the buttercups, or by the copses where the pheas- 
 ants crow ; after gathering June roses, or, in later 
 days, staining the lips with blackberries or cracking 
 nuts, by-and-by the path brings you in sight of a 
 railway station. And the railway station, through 
 some process of mind, presently compels you to go 
 up on the platform, and after a little puffing and 
 revolution of wheels you emerge at Charing-cross, 
 or London Bridge, or Waterloo, or Ludgate-hill, 
 and, with the freshness of the meadows still cling- 
 ing to your coat, mingle with the crowd. 
 
 The inevitable end of every footpath round 
 about London is London. All paths go thither. 
 
 If it were far away in the distant country, you 
 might sit down in the shadow upon the hay and 
 fall asleep, or dream awake hour after hour. 
 There would be no inclination to move. But if 
 you sat down on the sward under the ancient 
 pollard oak in the little mead with the brook, and 
 the wood of which I spoke just now as like a glade 
 in the enchanted Forest of Arden, this would not 
 be possible. It is the proximity of the immense 
 City which induces a mental, a nerve, restlessness. 
 As you sit and would dream, a something plucks 
 at the mind with constant reminder; you cannot 
 dream for long, you must up and away, and, turn
 
 FOOTPATHS 
 
 in which direction you please, ultimately it will 
 lead you to London. 
 
 There is a fascination in it ; there is a magnetism 
 stronger than that of the rock which drew the 
 nails from Sindbad's ship. You are like a bird let 
 out with a string tied to the foot to flutter a little 
 way and return again. It is not business, for you 
 may have none, in the ordinary sense ; it is not 
 " society," it is not pleasure. It is the presence 
 of man in his myriads. There is something in the 
 heart which cannot be satisfied away from it. 
 
 It is a curious thing that your next-door neigh- 
 bour may be a stranger, but there are no strangers 
 in a vast crowd. They all seem to have some 
 relationship, or rather, perhaps, they do not rouse 
 the sense of reserve which a single unknown per- 
 son might. Still, the impulse is not to be analysed ; 
 these are mere notes acknowledging its power. 
 The hills and vales and meads and woods are like 
 the ocean upon which Sindbad sailed ; but coming 
 too near the loadstone of London, the ship wends 
 thither, whether or no. 
 
 At least it is so with me, and I often go to 
 London without any object whatever, but just be- 
 cause I must, and, arriving there, wander whither- 
 soever the hurrying throng carries me.
 
 FLOCKS OF BIRDS 
 
 AERTAIN road leading outwards from 
 a suburb enters at once among fields. 
 It soon passes a thick hedge dividing 
 a meadow from a cornfield, in which 
 hedge is a spot where some bluebells may be 
 found in spring. Wild flowers are best seen when 
 in masses, a few scattered along a bank much 
 concealed by grass and foliage are lost, except, 
 indeed, upon those who love them for their own 
 sake. 
 
 This meadow in June, for instance, when the 
 buttercups are high, is one broad expanse of bur- 
 nished gold. The most careless passer-by can 
 hardly fail to cast a glance over acres of rich 
 yellow. The furze, again, especially after a 
 shower has refreshed its tint, must be seen by all. 
 Where broom grows thickly, lifting its colour well 
 into view, or where the bird's-foot lotus in full 
 summer overruns the thin grass of some upland 
 pasture, the eye cannot choose but acknowledge it. 
 So, too, with charlock, and with hillsides purple 
 with heath, or where the woodlands are azure wjth 
 31
 
 FLOCKS OF BIRDS 
 
 bluebells for a hundred yards together. Learning 
 from this, those who would transplant wild flowers 
 to their garden should arrange to have as many as 
 possible of the same species close together. 
 
 The bluebells in this hedge are unseen, except 
 by the rabbits. The latter have a large burrow, 
 and until the grass is too tall, or after it is cut or 
 grazed, can be watched from the highway. In 
 this hedge the first nightingale of the year sings, 
 beginning some two or three days before the bird 
 which comes to the bushes in the gorse, which 
 will presently be mentioned. 
 
 It is, or rather was, a favourite meadow with 
 the partridges ; one summer there was, I think, 
 a nest in or near it, for I saw the birds there daily. 
 But the next year they were absent. One after- 
 noon a brace of partridges came over the hedge 
 within a few inches of my head ; they had been 
 flushed and frightened at some distance, and came 
 with the wind at a tremendous pace. It is a habit 
 with partridges to fly low, but just skimming the 
 tops of the hedges, and certainly, had they been 
 three inches lower, they must have taken my hat 
 off. The knowledge that partridges were often 
 about there made me always glance into this field 
 on passing it, long after the nesting-season was 
 over. 
 
 In October, as I looked as usual, a hawk flew 
 3 33
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 between the elms, and out into the centre of the 
 meadow, with a large object in his talons. He 
 alighted in the middle, so as to be as far as possible 
 from either hedge, and no doubt prepared to enjoy 
 his quarry, when something startled him, and he 
 rose again. Then, as I got a better view, I saw it 
 was a rat he was carrying. The long body of the 
 animal was distinctly visible, and the tail depend- 
 ing, the hawk had it by the shoulders or head. 
 Flying without the least apparent effort, the bird 
 cleared the elms, and I lost sight of him beyond 
 them. Now, the kestrel is but a small bird, and 
 taking into consideration the size of the bird and 
 the weight of a rat, it seems as great a feat in 
 proportion as for an eagle to snatch up a lamb. 
 
 Some distance up the road, and in the corner of 
 an arable field, there was a wheat-rick which was 
 threshed and most of the straw carted away. But 
 there still remained the litter, and among it prob- 
 ably a quantity of stray corn. There was always 
 a flock of sparrows on this litter a flock that 
 might often be counted by the hundred. As I came 
 near the spot one day a sparrow-hawk, whose 
 approach I had not observed and which had there- 
 fore been flying low, suddenly came over the hedge 
 just by the loose straw. 
 
 With shrill cries the sparrows instantly rushed 
 for the hedge, not two yards distant ; but the hawk, 
 34
 
 FLOCKS OF BIRDS 
 
 dashing through the crowd of them as they rose, 
 carried away a victim. It was done in the tenth 
 of a second. He came, singled his bird, and was 
 gone like the wind, before the whirr of wings had 
 ceased on the hawthorn where the flock cowered. 
 
 Another time, but in a different direction, I saw 
 a hawk descend and either enter or appear to enter 
 a short much-cropped hedge, but twenty yards dis- 
 tant. I ran to the spot ; the hawk of course made 
 off, but there was nothing in the bush save a hedge 
 sparrow, which had probably attracted him, but 
 which he had not succeeded in getting. 
 
 Kestrels are almost common ; I have constantly 
 seen them while strolling along the road, generally 
 two together, and once three. In the latter part 
 of the summer and autumn they seem to be most 
 numerous, hovering over the recently reaped fields. 
 Certainly there is no scarcity of hawks here. Upon 
 one occasion, on Surbiton-hill, I saw a large bird 
 of the same kind, but not sufficiently near to iden- 
 tify. From the gliding flight, the long forked tail, 
 and large size I supposed it to be a kite. The 
 same bird was going about next day, but still 
 further off. I cannot say that it was a kite, for 
 unless it is a usual haunt, it is not in my opinion 
 wise to positively identify a bird seen for so short 
 a time. 
 
 The thick hedge mentioned is a favourite resort 
 35
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 2g~3 
 
 of blackbirds, and on a warm May morning, after 
 a shower they are extremely fond of a shower 
 half a dozen may be heard at once whistling in 
 the elms. They use the elms here because there 
 are not many oaks ; the oak is the blackbird's 
 favourite song-tree. There was one one day 
 whistling with all his might on the lower branch 
 of an elm, at the very roadside, and just above 
 him a wood-pigeon was perched. A pair of turtle- 
 doves built in the same hedge one spring, and while 
 resting on the gate by the roadside their " coo-coo " 
 mingled with the song of the nightingale and 
 thrush, the blackbird's whistle, the chiff-chaff's 
 " chip-chip," the willow-wren's pleading voice, and 
 the rustle of green corn as the wind came rushing 
 (as it always does to a gateway). 
 
 Goldfinches come by occasionally, not often, but 
 still they do come. The rarest bird seems to be 
 the bullfinch. I have only seen bullfinches three 
 or four times in three seasons, and then only a pair. 
 Now, this is worthy a note, as illustrating what I 
 have often ventured to say about the habitat of 
 birds being so often local, for if judged by observa- 
 tion here the bullfinch would be said to be a scarce 
 bird by London. But it has been stated upon the 
 best authority that only a few miles distant, and 
 still nearer town, they are common. 
 
 The road now becomes bordered by elms on 
 -36-
 
 FLOCKS OF BIRDS 
 
 either side, forming an irregular avenue. Almost 
 every elm in spring has its chaffinch loudly chal- 
 lenging. The birdcatchers are aware that it is a 
 frequented resort, and on Sunday mornings four or 
 five of them used to be seen in the course of a 
 mile, each with a call bird in a partly darkened 
 cage, a stuffed dummy, and limed twigs. In the 
 cornfields on either hand wood-pigeons are numer- 
 ous in spring and autumn. Up to April they come 
 in flocks, feeding on the newly sown grain when 
 they can get at it, and varying it with ivy berries, 
 from the ivy growing up the elms. By degrees the 
 flocks break up as the nesting begins in earnest. 
 
 Some pair and build much earlier than others ; 
 in fact, the first egg recorded is very little to be 
 depended on as an indication. Particular pairs (of 
 many kinds of birds) may have nests, and yet 
 the species as a species may be still flying in large 
 packs. The flocks which settle in these fields 
 number from one to two hundred. Rooks, wood- 
 pigeons, and tame white pigeons often feed amicably 
 mixed up together ; the white tame birds are con- 
 spicuous at a long distance before the crops have 
 risen, or after the stubble is ploughed. 
 
 I should think that the corn farmers of Surrey 
 lose more grain from the birds than the agricul- 
 turists whose tenancies are a hundred miles from 
 London. In the comparatively wild or open dis- 
 37
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 tricts to which I had been accustomed before I 
 made these observations I cannot recollect ever 
 seeing such vast numbers of birds. There were 
 places, of course, where they were numerous, and 
 there were several kinds more represented than is 
 the case here, and some that are scarcely repre- 
 sented at all. I have seen flocks of wood-pigeons 
 immensely larger than any here; but then it was 
 only occasionally. They came, passed over, and 
 were gone. Here the flocks, though not very 
 numerous, seem always to be about. 
 
 Sparrows crowd every hedge and field, their 
 numbers are incredible ; chaffinches are not to be 
 counted ; of greenfinches there must be thousands. 
 From the railway even you can see them. I 
 caught glimpses of a ploughed field recently sown 
 one spring from the window of a railway carriage, 
 every little clod of which seemed alive with small 
 birds, principally sparrows, chaffinches, and green- 
 finches. There must have been thousands in that 
 field alone. In autumn the numbers are even 
 greater, or rather more apparent. 
 
 One autumn some correspondence appeared la- 
 menting the scarcity of small birds (and again in 
 the spring the same cry was raised) ; people said 
 that they had walked along the roads or footpaths 
 and there were none in the hedges. They were 
 quite correct the birds were not in the hedges, 
 -38-
 
 FLOCKS OF BIRDS 
 
 they were in the corn and stubble. After the nest- 
 ing is well over and the wheat is ripe, the birds 
 leave the hedges and go out into the wheatfields ; 
 at the same time the sparrows quit the house-tops 
 and gardens and do the same. At the very time 
 this complaint was raised, the stubbles in Surrey, 
 as I can vouch, were crowded with small birds. 
 
 If you wallced across the stubble, flocks of hun- 
 dreds rose out of your way ; if you leant on a gate 
 and watched a few minutes, you could see small 
 flocks in every quarter of the field rising and set- 
 tling again. These movements indicated a larger 
 number in the stubble there, for where a great 
 flock is feeding some few every now and then fly 
 up restlessly. Earlier than that in the summer 
 there was not a wheatfield where you could not 
 find numerous wheatears picked as clean as if 
 threshed where they stood. In some places the 
 wheat was quite thinned. 
 
 Later in the year there seems a movement of 
 small birds from the lower to the higher lands. 
 One December day I remember particularly visit- 
 ing the neighbourhood of Ewell, where the lands 
 begin to rise up towards the Downs. Certainly, I 
 have seldom seen such vast numbers of small birds. 
 Up from the stubble flew sparrows, chaffinches, 
 greenfinches, yellowhammers, in such flocks that 
 the low-cropped hedge was covered with them. A 
 39
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 second correspondence appeared in the spring upon 
 the same subject, and again the scarcity of small 
 birds was deplored. 
 
 So far as the neighbourhood of London was con- 
 cerned, this was the exact reverse of the truth. 
 
 Small birds swarmed, as I have already stated, in 
 every ploughed field. All the birdcatchers in Lon- 
 don with traps and nets and limed twigs could 
 never make the slightest appreciable difference to 
 such flocks. I have always expressed my detesta- 
 tion of the birdcatcher ; but it is founded on other 
 grounds, and not from any fear of the diminution 
 of numbers only. \Vhere the birdcatcher does in- 
 flict irretrievable injury is in this way a bird, 
 say a nightingale, say a goldfinch, has had a nest 
 for years in the corner of a garden, or an apple- 
 tree in an orchard. The birdcatcher presently 
 decoys one or other of these, and thenceforward 
 the spot is deserted. The song is heard no more ; 
 the nest never again rebuilt. 
 
 The first spring I resided in Surrey I was fairly 
 astonished and delighted at the bird life which pro- 
 claimed itself everywhere. The bevies of chiff- 
 chafFs and willow-wrens which came to the thickets 
 in the furze, the chorus of thrushes and blackbirds, 
 the chaffinches in the elms, the greenfinches in 
 the hedges, wood-pigeons and turtledoves m the 
 copses, tree pipits about the oaks in the cornfields ; 
 40
 
 FLOCKS OF BIRDS 
 
 every bush, every tree, almost every clod, for the 
 larks were so many, seemed to have its songster. 
 As for nightingales, I never knew so many in the 
 most secluded country. 
 
 There are more round about London than in all 
 the woodlands I used to ramble through. When 
 people go into the country they really leave the 
 birds behind them. It was the same, I found, 
 after longer observation, with birds perhaps less 
 widely known as with those universally recognised 
 
 such, for instance, as shrikes. The winter 
 when the cry was raised that there were no birds, 
 that the blackbirds and thrushes had left the lawns 
 and must be dead, and how wicked it would be to 
 take a nest next year, I had not the least difficulty 
 in finding plenty of them. 
 
 They had simply gone to the water meadows, 
 the brooks, and moist places generally. Every lo- 
 cality where running water kept the ground moist 
 and permitted of movement among the creeping 
 things which form these birds' food, was naturally 
 resorted to. Thrushes and blackbirds, although 
 they do not pack that is, regularly fly in flocks 
 
 undoubtedly migrate when pressed by weather. 
 They are well known to arrive on the east 
 
 coast from Norway in numbers as the cold increases. 
 
 I see no reason why we may not suppose that in 
 
 very severe and continued frost the thrushes and 
 
 41
 
 2S>^3* NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 blackbirds round London fly westwards towards 
 the milder side of the island. It seems to me that 
 when, some years since, I used to stroll round the 
 water meadows in a western county for snipes in 
 frosty weather, the hedges were full of thrushes 
 and blackbirds quite full of them. 
 
 Now, though there were thrushes and blackbirds 
 about the brooks by London last winter, there were 
 few in the hedges generally. Had they, then, 
 flown westwards ? It is my belief that they had. 
 They had left the hard-bound ground about Lon- 
 don for the softer and moister lands farther west. 
 They had crossed the rain-line. When frost pre- 
 vents access to food in the east, thrushes and black- 
 birds move westwards, just as the fieldfares and 
 redwings do. 
 
 That the fieldfares and redwings do so I can say 
 with confidence, because, as they move in large 
 flocks, there is no difficulty in tracing the direction 
 in which they are going. They all went west 
 when the severe weather began. On the southern 
 side of London, at least in the districts I am best 
 acquainted with, there was hardly a fieldfare or 
 redwing to be seen for weeks and even months. 
 Towards spring they came back, flying east for 
 Norway. As thrushes and blackbirds move singly 
 and not with concerted action, their motions can- 
 not be determined with such precision, but all the 
 42
 
 FLOCKS OF BIRD S 
 
 facts are in favour of the belief that they also went 
 west. 
 
 That they were killed by the frost and snow I 
 utterly refuse to credit. Some few, no doubt, 
 were I saw some greatly enfeebled by starvation 
 but not the mass. If so many had been de- 
 stroyed, their bodies must have been seen when 
 there was no foliage to hide them, and no insects 
 to quickly play the scavenger as in summer. Some 
 were killed by cats ; a few perhaps by rats, for in 
 sharp winters they go down into the ditches, and 
 I saw a dead redwing, torn and disfigured, at the 
 mouth of a drain during the snow, where it might 
 have been fastened on by a rat. But it is quite 
 improbable that thousands died as was supposed. 
 
 Thrushes and blackbirds are not like rooks. 
 Rooks are so bound by tradition and habit that 
 they very rarely quit the locality where they were 
 reared. Their whole lives are spent in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the nest trees and the woods where 
 they sleep. They may travel miles during the 
 day, but they always come back to roost. These 
 are the birds that suffer the most during long frosts 
 and snows. Unable to break the chain that binds 
 them to one spot, they die rather than desert it. 
 A miserable time, indeed, they had of it that winter, 
 but I never heard that any one proposed feeding the 
 rooks, the very birds that wanted it most. 
 43
 
 Sf-JSK NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 Swallows, again, were declared by many to be 
 fewer. It is not at all unlikely that they were 
 fewer. The wet season was unfavourable to them; 
 still a good deal of the supposed absence of swal- 
 lows may be through the observer not looking for 
 them in the right place. If not wheeling in the 
 sky, look for them over the water, the river, or 
 great ponds; if not there, look along the moist 
 fields or shady woodland meadows. They vary 
 their haunts with the state of the atmosphere, 
 which causes insects to be more numerous in one 
 place at one time, and presently in another. 
 
 A very wet season is more fatal than the sharp- 
 est frost ; it acts by practically reducing the births, 
 leaving the ordinary death-rate to continue. Con- 
 sequently, as the old birds die, there are none (or 
 fewer) to supply their places. Once more let me 
 express the opinion that there are as many small 
 birds round London as in the country, and no 
 measure is needed to protect the species at large. 
 Protection, if needed, is required for the individual. 
 Sweep the roads and lanes clear of the birdcatchers, 
 but do not prevent a boy from taking a nest in the 
 open fields or commons. If it were made illegal 
 to sell full-grown birds, half the evil would be 
 stopped at once if the law were enforced. The 
 question is full of difficulties. To prevent or 
 attempt to prevent the owner of a garden from
 
 FLOCKS OF BIRDS 2^3Z 
 
 shooting the bullfinches or blackbirds and so on, 
 that steal his fruit, or destroy his buds, is absurd. 
 It is equally absurd to fine what twaddle ! a 
 lad for taking a bird's egg. The only point upon 
 which I am fully clear is that the birdcatcher who 
 takes birds on land not his own or in his occupa- 
 tion, on public property, as roads, wastes, com- 
 mons, and so forth, ought to be rigidly put down. 
 But as for the small birds as a mass, I am con- 
 vinced that they will never cease out of the land. 
 
 It is not easy to progress far along this road, 
 because every bird suggests so many reflections and 
 recollections. Upon approaching the rising ground 
 at Ewell green plovers or peewits become plentiful 
 in the cornfields. In spring and early summer the 
 flocks break up to some extent, and the scattered 
 parties conduct their nesting operations in the 
 pastures or on the downs. In autumn they collect 
 together again, and flocks of fifty or more are 
 commonly seen. Now and then a much larger 
 flock comes down into the plain, wheeling to and 
 fro, and presently descending upon an arable field, 
 where they cover the ground. 
 
 45
 
 NIGHTINGALE ROAD 
 
 ^HE wayside is open to all, and that 
 which it affords may be enjoyed with- 
 out fee ; therefore it is that I return 
 to it so often. It is a fact that com- 
 mon hedgerows often yield more of general inter- 
 est than the innermost recesses of carefully guarded 
 preserves, which by day are frequently still, silent, 
 and denuded of everything, even of game ; nor 
 can flowers flourish in such thick shade, nor where 
 fir-needles cover the ground. 
 
 By the same wayside of which I have already 
 spoken there is a birch copse, through which runs 
 a road open to foot passengers, but not to wheel 
 traffic, and also a second footpath. From these 
 a little observation will show that almost all the 
 life and interest of the copse is at, or near, the 
 edge, and can be readily seen without trespassing 
 a single yard. Sometimes, when it is quiet in the 
 evening and the main highway is comparatively 
 deserted, a hare comes stealing down the track 
 through the copse and after lingering there awhile 
 crosses the highway into the stubble on the other 
 side. 
 
 - 4 6_
 
 NIGHTINGALE ROAD 
 
 In one of these fields, just opposite the copse, a 
 covey of partridges had their rendezvous, and I 
 watched them from the road, evening after even- 
 ing, issue one by one, calling as they appeared 
 from a breadth of mangolds. Their sleeping-place 
 seemed to be about a hundred yards from the 
 wayside. Another arable field just opposite is 
 bounded by the road with iron wire or railing, 
 instead of a hedge, and the low mound in which 
 the stakes are fixed swarmed one summer with 
 ant-hills full of eggs, and a slight rustle in the corn 
 as I approached told where the parent bird had 
 just led her chicks from the feast to shelter. 
 
 Passing into the copse by the road, which is 
 metalled but weed-grown from lack of use, the 
 grasshoppers sing from the sward at the sides, but 
 the birds are silent as the summer ends. Pink 
 striped bells of convolvulus flower' over the flints 
 and gravel, the stones nearly hidden by their run- 
 ners and leaves ; yellow toadflax or eggs and 
 bacon grew here till a weeding took place, since 
 which it has not reappeared, but in its place viper's 
 bugloss sprang up, a plant which was not previously 
 to be found there. Hawkweeds, some wild vetches, 
 white yarrow, thistles, and burdocks conceal the 
 flints yet further, so that the track has the appear- 
 ance of a green drive. 
 
 The slender birch and ash poles are hung with
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 woodbine and wild hops, both growing in profusion. 
 A cream-coloured wall of woodbine in flower ex- 
 tends in one spot, in another festoons of hops hang 
 gracefully, and so thick as to hide everything 
 beyond them. There is scarce a stole without its 
 woodbine or hops ; many of the poles, though larger 
 than the arm, are scored with spiral grooves left by 
 the bines. Under these bushes of woodbine the 
 nightingales when they first arrive in spring are 
 fond of searching for food, and dart on a grub 
 with a low satisfied " kurr." 
 
 The place is so favourite a resort with these 
 birds that it might well be called Nightingale 
 Copse. Four or five may be heard singing at 
 once on a warm May morning, and at least two 
 may often be seen as well as heard at the same 
 time. They sometimes sing from the trees, as 
 well as from the bushes ; one was singing one 
 morning on an elm branch which projected over 
 the road, and under which the van drivers jogged 
 indifferently along. Sometimes they sing from 
 the dark foliage of the Scotch firs. 
 
 As the summer wanes they haunt the hawthorn 
 hedge by the roadside, leaving the interior of the 
 copse, and may often be seen on the dry and dusty 
 sward. When chiff-chaff and willow-wren first 
 come, they remain in the tree-tops, but in the 
 summer descend into the lower bushes, and, like 
 - 4 8-
 
 NIGHTINGALE ROAD 
 
 the nightingales, come out upon the sward by the 
 wayside. Nightingale Copse is also a great fa- 
 vourite with cuckoos. There are a few oaks in 
 it, and in the meadows in the rear many detached 
 hawthorn bushes, and two or three small groups 
 of trees, chestnuts, lime, and elm. From the 
 hawthorns to the elms, and from the elms to the 
 oaks, the cuckoos continually circulate, calling as 
 they fly. 
 
 One morning in May, while resting on a rail in 
 the copse, I heard four calling close by, the fur- 
 thest not a hundred yards distant, and as they 
 continually changed their positions flying round 
 there was always one in sight. They circled 
 round singing ; the instant one ceased another took 
 it up, a perfect madrigal. In the evening, at eight 
 o'clock, I found them there again still singing. 
 The same detached groups of trees are much 
 frequented by wood-pigeons, especially towards 
 autumn. 
 
 Rooks prefer to perch on the highest branches, 
 wood-pigeons more in the body of the tree, and 
 when the boughs are bare of leaves a flock of the 
 latter may be recognised in this way as far as the 
 eye can see, and when the difference of colour is 
 rendered imperceptible by distance. The wood- 
 pigeon when perched has a rounded appearance ; 
 the rook a longer and sharper outline. .-,, 
 
 4 49
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 By one corner of the copse there is an oak, 
 hollow within, but still green and flourishing. The 
 hollow is black and charred ; some mischievous 
 boys must have lighted a fire inside it, just as the 
 ploughboys do in the far-away country. A little 
 pond in the meadow close by is so overhung by 
 another oak, and so surrounded with bramble and 
 hawthorn, that the water lies in perpetual shade. 
 It is just the spot where, if rabbits were about, one 
 might be found sitting out on the bank under the 
 brambles. This overhanging oak was broken by 
 the famous October snow, 1880, further splintered 
 by the gales of the next year, and its trunk is now 
 split from top to bottom as if with wedges. 
 
 These meadows in spring are full of cowslips, 
 and in one part the meadow-orchis flourishes. 
 The method of making cowslip balls is universally 
 known to children, from the most remote hamlet 
 to the very verge of London, and the little children 
 who dance along the greensward by the road 
 here, if they chance to touch a nettle, at once 
 search for a dock leaf to lay on it and assuage the 
 smart. Country children, and indeed older folk, 
 call the foliage of the knotted figwort cutfinger 
 leaves, as they are believed to assist the cure of a 
 cut or sore. 
 
 Raspberry suckers shoot up in one part of the 
 copse; the fruit is doubtless eaten by the birds. 
 5
 
 NIGHTINGALE ROAD 
 
 Troops of them come here, travelling along the 
 great hedge by the wayside, and all seem to prefer 
 the outside trees and bushes to the interior of the 
 copse. This great hedge is as wide as a country 
 double mound, though it has but one ditch j the 
 thick hawthorn, blackthorn, elder, and bramble 
 the oaks, elms, ashes, and firs form, in fact, almost 
 a cover of themselves. 
 
 In the early spring, when the east wind rushes 
 with bitter energy across the plains, this immense 
 hedge, as far as it extends, shelters the wayfarer, 
 the road being on the southern side, so that he can 
 enjoy such gleams of sunshine as appear. In 
 summer the place is, of course for the same rea- 
 son, extremely warm, unless the breeze chances to 
 come up strong from the west, when it sweeps over 
 the open cornfields fresh and sweet. Stoats and 
 weasels are common on the mound, or crossing 
 the road to the corn ; they seem more numerous 
 in autumn, and I fear leveret and partridge are 
 thinned by them. 
 
 Mice abound; in spring they are sometimes up 
 in the blackthorn bushes, perhaps for the young 
 buds. In summer they may often be heard rushing 
 along the furrows across the wayside sward, scarce 
 concealed by the wiry grass. Flowers are very 
 local in habit ; the spurge, for instance, which is 
 common in a road parallel to this, is not to be 
 51
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 seen, and not very much cow-parsnip, or "gix," 
 one of the most freely growing hedge plants, which 
 almost chokes the mounds near by. Willowherbs, 
 however, fill every place in the ditch here where they 
 can find room between the bushes, and the arum is 
 equally common, but the lesser celandine absent. 
 
 Towards evening, as the clover and vetches 
 closed their leaves under the dew, giving the fields 
 a different aspect and another green, I used occa- 
 sionally to watch from here a pair of herons, sailing 
 over in their calm serene way. Their flight was 
 in the direction of the Thames, and they then 
 passed evening after evening, but the following 
 summer they did not come. One evening, later 
 on in autumn, two birds appeared descending across 
 the cornfields towards a secluded hollow where 
 there was water, and, although at a considerable 
 distance, from their manner of flight I could have 
 no doubt they were teal. 
 
 The spotted leaves of the arum appeared in the 
 ditches in this locality very nearly simultaneously 
 with the first whistling of the blackbirds in Febru- 
 ary ; last spring the chifF-chafF sang soon after the 
 flowering of the lesser celandine (not in this hedge, 
 but near by), and the first swift was noticed within 
 a day or two of the opening of the may bloom. 
 Although not exactly, yet in a measure, the move- 
 ments of plant and bird life correspond. 
 52
 
 NIGHTINGAXE ROAD 
 
 In a closely cropped hedge opposite this great 
 mound (cropped because enclosing a cornfield) 
 there grows a solitary shrub of the wayfaring tree. 
 Though well known elsewhere, there is not, so far 
 as I am aware, another bush of it for miles, and I 
 should not have noticed this had not this part of 
 the highway been so pleasant a place to stroll to 
 and fro in almost all the year. The twigs of the 
 wayfaring tree are covered with a mealy substance 
 which comes off on the fingers when touched. A 
 stray shrub or plant like this sometimes seems of 
 more interest than a whole group. 
 
 For instance, most of the cottage gardens have 
 foxgloves in them, but I had not observed any 
 wild, till one afternoon near some woods I found a 
 tall and beautiful foxglove, richer in colour than 
 the garden specimens, and with bells more thickly 
 crowded, lifting its spike of purple above the low- 
 cropped hawthorn. In districts where the soil is 
 favourable to the foxglove it would not have been 
 noticed, but here, alone and unexpected, it was 
 welcomed. The bees in spring come to the broad 
 wayside sward by the great mound to the bright 
 dandelions ; presently to the white clover, and 
 later to the heaths. 
 
 There are about sixty wild flowers which grow 
 freely along this road, namely, yellow agrimony, 
 amphibious persicaria,arum, avens, bindweed, bird's- 
 53
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 foot lotus, bittersweet, blackberry, black and white 
 bryony, brooklime, burdock, buttercups, wild camo- 
 mile, wild carrot, celandine the great and lesser 
 cinquefoil, cleavers, corn buttercup, corn mint, 
 corn sow thistle, and spurrey, cowslip, cow-parsnip, 
 wild parsley, daisy, dandelion, dead nettle, and 
 white dog rose, and trailing rose, violets, the sweet 
 and the scentless, figwort, veronica, ground ivy, 
 willowherb, two sorts, herb Robert, honeysuckle, 
 lady's smock, purple loosestrife, mallow, meadow 
 orchis, meadowsweet, yarrow, moon daisy, St. 
 John's wort, pimpernel, water plaintain, poppy, 
 rattles, scabious, self-heal, silverweed, sow thistle, 
 stitchwort, teazles, tormentil, vetches, and yellow 
 vetch. 
 
 To these may be added an occasional bacon and 
 eggs, a few harebells (plenty on higher ground), 
 the yellow iris, by the adjoining brook, and flower- 
 ing shrubs and trees, as dogwood, gorse, privet, 
 blackthorn, hawthorn, horse-chestnut, besides wild 
 hops, the horsetails on the mounds, and such plants 
 as grow everywhere, as chickweed, groundsel, and 
 so forth. A solitary shrub of mugwort grows 
 at some distance, but in the same district and in 
 one hedgerow the wild guelder rose flourishes. 
 Anemones and primroses are not found along or 
 near this road, nor woodruff. At the first glance 
 a list like this reads as if flowers abounded, but the 
 54
 
 NIG H T INGALE ROAD se^a? 
 
 reverse is the impression to those who frequent the 
 place. 
 
 It is really a very short list, and as of course all 
 of these do not appear at once there really is rather 
 a scarcity of wild flowers, so far at least as variety 
 goes. Just in the spring there is a burst of colour, 
 and again in the autumn ; but for the rest, if we 
 set aside the roses in June, there seems quite an 
 absence of flowers during the summer. The way- 
 side is green, the ditches are green, the mounds 
 green ; if you enter and stroll round the meadows, 
 they are green too, or white in places with umbel- 
 liferous plants, principally parsley and cow-parsnip. 
 But these become monotonous. Therefore, I am 
 constrained to describe it as a district somewhat 
 lacking flowers, meaning, of course, in point of 
 variety. 
 
 Compared with the hedges and fields of Wilt- 
 shire, Gloucestershire, Berkshire, and similar south- 
 western localities, it seems flowerless. On the 
 other hand, southern London can boast stretches 
 of heath which, when in full bloom, rival Scotch 
 hillsides. These remarks are written entirely from 
 a non-scientific point of view. Professional 
 botanists may produce lists of thrice the length, 
 and prove that all the flowers of England are to be 
 found near London. But it will not alter the fact 
 that to the ordinary eye the roads and lanes just
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON ^^ 
 
 south of London are in the middle of the summer 
 comparatively bare of colour. They should be 
 visited in spring and autumn. 
 
 Nor do the meadows seem to produce so many 
 varieties of grass as farther to the south-west. 
 But beetles of every kind and size, from the great 
 stag beetle, helplessly floundering through the even- 
 ing air and clinging to your coat, down to the 
 green, bronze, and gilded species that hasten across 
 the path, appear extremely numerous. Warm, 
 dry sands, light soils, and furze and heath are prob- 
 ably favourable to them. 
 
 From this roadside I have seldom heard the 
 corncrake, and never once the grasshopper lark. 
 These two birds are so characteristic of the 
 meadows in south-western counties that a summer 
 evening seems silent to me without the " crake, 
 crake ! " of the one and the singular sibilous rat- 
 tle of the other. But they come to other places 
 not far distant from the road, and one summer a 
 grasshopper-lark could be heard in some mead- 
 ows where I had not heard it the two preceding 
 seasons. On the mounds field crickets cry 
 persistently. 
 
 At the end of the hedge which is near a brook, 
 
 a sedge-reedling takes up his residence in the 
 
 spring. The sedge-reedlings here begin to call 
 
 very early; the first date I have down is the i6th 
 
 _ S 6-
 
 NIGHTINGALE ROAD 
 
 of April, which is, I think, some weeks before they 
 begin in other localities. In one ditch beside the 
 road (not in this particular hedge) there grows a 
 fine bunch of reeds. Though watery, on account 
 of the artificial drains from the arable fields, the 
 spot is on much higher ground than the brook, 
 and it is a little singular that while reeds flourish 
 in this place they are not to be found by the brook. 
 
 The elms of the neighbourhood, wherever they 
 can be utilised as posts, are unmercifully wired, 
 wires twisted round, holes bored and the ends of 
 wire driven in or staples inserted, and the same 
 with the young oaks. Many trees are much dis- 
 figured from this cause, the bark is worn off on 
 many ; and others, which have recovered, have 
 bulging rings, where it swelled up over the iron. 
 The heads of large nails and staples are easily dis- 
 covered where the wire has disappeared, sometimes 
 three or four, one above the other, in the same tree. 
 A fine avenue of elms which shades part of a 
 suburb appears to be dying by degrees the too 
 common fate of elms in such places. 
 
 How many beautiful trees have thus perished 
 near London ? witness the large elms that once 
 stood in Jews' Walk, at Sydenham. Barking the 
 trunks for sheer wanton mischief is undoubtedly 
 the cause in some cases, and it has been suggested 
 that quicksilver has occasionally been inserted in 
 57
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 gimlet holes. The mercury is supposed to work up 
 the channels of the sap, and to prevent its flow. 
 
 But may not the ordinary conditions of suburban 
 improvement often account for the decay of such 
 trees without occult causes ? Sewers carry away 
 the water that used to moisten the roots, and being 
 at some depth, they not only take the surface 
 water of a storm before it has had time to penetrate, 
 but drain the lower stratum completely. Then, 
 gas-pipes frequently leak, so much so that the soil 
 for yards is saturated and emits a smell of gas. 
 Roots passing through such a soil can scarcely be 
 healthy, and very probably in making excavations 
 for laying pipes the roots are cut through. The 
 young trees that have been planted in some 
 places are, I notice, often bored by grubs to an 
 extraordinary extent, and will never make sound 
 timber. 
 
 One July day, while walking on this road, I 
 happened to look over a gateway and saw that a 
 large and prominent mansion on the summit of 
 some elevated ground had apparently disappeared. 
 The day was very clear and bright, sunny and hot, 
 and there was no natural vapour. But on the 
 light north-east wind there came slowly towards 
 me a bluish-yellow mist, the edge of which was 
 clearly defined, and which blotted out distant ob- 
 jects and blurred those nearer at hand. The ap- 
 -58-
 
 NIGHTINGALE ROAD 
 
 pearance of the open arable field over which I was 
 looking changed as it approached. 
 
 In front of the wall of mist the sunshine lit the 
 field up brightly, behind the ground was dull, and 
 yet not in shadow. It came so slowly that its 
 movement could be easily watched. When it 
 went over me there was a perceptible coolness and 
 a faint smell of damp smoke, and immediately the 
 road, which had been white under the sunshine, 
 took a dim, yellowish hue. The sun was not 
 shut out nor even obscured, but the rays had to 
 pass through a thicker medium. This haze was 
 not thick enough to be called fog, nor was it the 
 summer haze that in the country adds to the 
 beauty of distant hills and woods. 
 
 It was clearly the atmosphere not the fog 
 but simply the atmosphere of London brought out 
 over the fields by a change in the wind, and pre- 
 vented from diffusing itself by conditions of which 
 nothing seems known. For at ordinary times the 
 atmosphere of London diffuses itself in aerial space 
 and is lost, but on this hot July day it came bodily 
 and undiluted out into the cornfields. From its 
 appearance I should say it would travel many 
 miles in the same condition. In November fog 
 seems seasonable : in hot" and dry July this phe- 
 nomenon was striking. 
 
 Along the road flocks of sheep continue to 
 59
 
 5L3K NATURE NEAR LONDON S~ 
 
 travel, some weary enough, and these, gravitating 
 to the rear of the flock by reason of infirmity, lie 
 down in the dust to rest, while their companions 
 feed on the wayside sward. But the shepherds are 
 careful of them, and do not hasten. Shepherds here 
 often carry the pastoral crook. In districts far 
 from the metropolis you may wander about for 
 days, and with sheep all round you, never see a 
 shepherd with a crook ; but near town the pastoral 
 staff is common. 
 
 These flocks appear to be on their way to the 
 southern down farms, and, as I said before, the 
 shepherds are tender over their sheep and careful 
 not to press them. I regret that I cannot say the 
 same about the bullocks, droves of which contin- 
 ually go by, often black cattle, and occasionally 
 even the little Highland animals. The appearance 
 of some of these droves is quite sufficient to indi- 
 cate the treatment they have undergone. Staring 
 eyes, heads continually turned from side to side, 
 starting at everything, sometimes bare places on 
 the shoulders, all tell the same tale of blows and 
 brutal treatment. 
 
 Suburban streets which a minute before were 
 crowded with ladies and children (most gentlemen 
 are in town at mid-day) are suddenly vacated when 
 the word passes that cattle are coming. People rush 
 everywhere, into gardens, shops, back lanes, any- 
 6o_
 
 NIGHTINGALE ROAD 
 
 where, as if the ringing scabbards of charging cav- 
 alry were heard, or the peculiar thumping rattle 
 of rifles as they come to the "present" before a 
 storm of bullets. It is no wonder that towns- 
 folk exhibit a fear of cattle which makes their 
 friends laugh when they visit the country after such 
 experiences as these. This should be put down 
 with a firm hand. 
 
 By the roadside here the hay tiers, who cut up 
 the hay-ricks into trusses, use balances a trifling 
 matter, but sufficient to mark a difference, for in 
 the west such men use a steelyard slung on a 
 prong, the handle of the prong on the shoulder and 
 the points stuck i'n the rick, with which to weigh 
 the trusses. Wooden cottages, wooden barns, 
 wooden mills are also characteristic. 
 
 Mouchers come along the road at all times and 
 seasons, gathering sacksful of dandelions in spring, 
 digging up fern roots and cowslip mars for sale, 
 cutting briars for standard roses, gathering water- 
 cresses and mushrooms, and in the winter cutting 
 rushes. 
 
 There is a rook with white feathers in the wing 
 which belongs to an adjacent rookery, and I have 
 observed a blackbird also streaked with white. 
 One January day, when the snow was on the 
 ground and the frost was sharp, when the pale sun 
 seemed to shine brightest round the rim of the disk, 
 61
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 as if there were a band of stronger light there, I 
 saw a white animal under a heap of poles by the 
 wayside, near the great hedge I have mentioned. 
 It immediately concealed itself, but, thinking that 
 it was a ferret gone astray, I waited, and presently 
 the head and neck were cautiously protruded. 
 
 I made the usual call with the lips, but the crea- 
 ture instantly returned to cover. I waited again, 
 hiding this time, and after an interval the creature 
 moved and hastened away from the poles, where it 
 was, in a measure, exposed, to the more secure 
 shelter of some bushes. Then I saw that it was of a 
 clear white, while so-called white ferrets are usually 
 a dingy yellow, and the white tail was tipped with 
 black. From these circumstances, and from the 
 timidity and anxious desire to escape observation, 
 I could only conclude that it was a white stoat. 
 
 Stoats, as remarked previously, are numerous in 
 these hedges, and it was quite possible for a white 
 one to be among them. The white stoat may be 
 said to exactly resemble the ermine. The interest 
 of the circumstance arises not from its rarity, but 
 from its occurring so near the metropolis.
 
 A BROOK 
 
 OME low wooden rails guarding the ap- 
 proach to a bridge over a brook one day 
 induced me to rest under an aspen, with 
 my back against the tree. Some horse- 
 chestnuts, beeches, and alders grew there, fringing 
 the end of a long plantation of willow stoles which 
 extended in the rear following the stream. In 
 front, southwards, there were open meadows and 
 cornfields, over which shadow and sunshine glided 
 in succession as the sweet westerly wind carried 
 the white clouds before it. 
 
 The brimming brook, as it wound towards me 
 through the meads, seemed to tremble on the verge 
 of overflowing, as the crown of wine in a glass 
 rises yet does not spill. Level with the green 
 grass, the water gleamed as though polished where 
 it flowed smoothly, crossed with the dark shadows 
 of willows which leaned over it. By the bridge, 
 where the breeze rushed through the arches, a 
 ripple flashed back the golden rays. The surface 
 by the shore slipped towards a side hatch and 
 passed over in a liquid curve, clear and unvarying, 
 -63-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON y&L 
 
 as if of solid crystal, till shattered on the stones, 
 where the air caught up and played with the sound 
 of the bubbles as they broke. 
 
 Beyond the green slope of corn, a thin, soft 
 vapour hung on the distant woods, and hid the 
 hills. The pale young leaves of the aspen rustled 
 faintly, not yet with their full sound ; the sprays 
 of the horse-chestnut, drooping with the late frosts, 
 could not yet keep out the sunshine with their 
 broad green. A white spot on the footpath yonder 
 was where the bloom had fallen from a blackthorn 
 bush. 
 
 The note of the tree-pipit came from over the 
 corn there were some detached oaks away in the 
 midst of the field, and the birds were doubtless fly- 
 ing continually up and down between the wheat 
 and the branches. A willow-wren sang plaintively 
 in the plantation behind, and once a cuckoo called 
 at a distance. How beautiful is the sunshine ! 
 The very dust of the road at my feet seemed to 
 glow with whiteness, to be lit up by it, and to be- 
 come another thing. This spot henceforward was 
 a place of pilgrimage. 
 
 Looking that morning over the parapet of the 
 bridge, down stream, there was a dead branch at 
 the mouth of the arch ; it had caught and got fixed 
 while it floated along. A quantity of aquatic weeds 
 coming down the stream had drifted against the 
 6 4
 
 A BROOK 
 
 branch and remained entangled in it. Fresh weeds 
 were still coming and adding to the mass, which 
 had attracted a water-rat. 
 
 Perched on the branch, the little brown creature 
 bent forward over the surface, and with its two 
 forepaws drew towards it the slender thread of a 
 weed, exactly as with hands. Holding the thread 
 in the paws, it nibbled it, eating the sweet and 
 tender portion, feeding without fear, though but a 
 few feet away, and precisely beneath me. 
 
 In a minute the surface of the current was dis- 
 turbed by larger ripples. There had been a ripple 
 caused by the draught through the arch, but this 
 was now increased. Directly afterwards a moor- 
 hen swam out, and began to search among the 
 edge of the tangled weeds. So long as I was 
 perfectly still the bird took no heed, but at a slight 
 movement instantly scuttled back under the arch. 
 The water-rat, less timorous, paused, looked round, 
 and returned to feeding. 
 
 Crossing to the other side of the bridge, up 
 stream, and looking over, the current had scooped 
 away the sand of the bottom by the central pier, 
 exposing the brickwork to some depth the same 
 undermining process that goes on by the piers of 
 bridges over great rivers. Nearer the shore the 
 sand has silted up, leaving it shallow, where water- 
 parsnip and other weeds joined, as it were, the 
 5 -65-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON s= 
 
 verge of the grass and the stream. The sunshine 
 reflected from the ripples on this, the southern side, 
 continually ran with a swift, trembling motion up 
 the arch. 
 
 Penetrating the clear water, the light revealed the 
 tiniest stone at the bottom ; but there was no fish, 
 no water-rat, or moorhen on this side. Neither 
 on that nor many succeeding mornings could any- 
 thing be seen there ; the tail of the arch was 
 evidently the favourite spot. Carefully looking 
 over that side again, the moorhen who had been 
 out rushed back ; the water-rat was gone. Were 
 there any fish ? In the shadow the water was 
 difficult to see through, and the brown scum of 
 spring that lined the bottom rendered everything 
 uncertain. 
 
 By gazing steadily at a stone my eyes presently 
 became accustomed to the peculiar light, the pupils 
 adjusted themselves to it, and the brown tints 
 became more distinctly defined. Then sweeping 
 by degrees from a stone to another, and from 
 thence to a rotting stick embedded in the sand, 
 I searched the bottom inch by inch. If you look, 
 as it were, at large at everything at once you 
 see nothing. If you take some object as a fixed 
 point, gaze all around it, and then move to another, 
 nothing can escape. 
 
 Even the deepest, darkest water (not, of course, 
 66
 
 A BROOK 
 
 muddy) yields after a while to the eye. Half close 
 the eyelids, and while gazing into it let your intel- 
 ligence rather wait upon the corners of the eye 
 than on the glance you cast straight forward. For 
 some reason when thus gazing the edge of the eye 
 becomes exceedingly sensitive, and you are con- 
 scious of slight motions or of a thickness not 
 a defined object, but a thickness which indicates an 
 object which is otherwise quite invisible. 
 
 The slow feeling sway of a fish's tail, the edges 
 of which curl over and grasp the water, may in 
 this manner be identified without being positively 
 seen, and the dark outline of its body known to 
 exist against the equally dark water or bank. 
 Shift, too, your position according to the fall of the 
 light, just as in looking at a painting. From one 
 point of view the canvas shows little but the 
 presence of paint and blurred colour, from another 
 at the side the picture stands out. 
 
 Sometimes the water can be seen into best from 
 above, sometimes by lying on the sward, now by 
 standing back a little way, or crossing to the oppo- 
 site shore. A spot where the sunshine sparkles with 
 dazzling gleam is perhaps perfectly impenetrable till 
 you get the other side of the ripple, when the same 
 rays that just now baffled the glance light up the 
 bottom as if thrown from a mirror for the pur- 
 pose. I convinced myself that there was nothing 
 -67-
 
 ^3* NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 here, nothing visible at present not so much as a 
 stickleback. 
 
 Yet the stream ran clear and sweet, and deep in 
 places. It was too broad for leaping over. Down 
 the current sedges grew thickly at a curve ; up the 
 stream the young flags were rising ; it had an in- 
 habited look, if such a term may be used, and 
 moorhens and water-rats were about, but no fish. 
 A wide furrow came along the meadow and joined 
 the stream from the side. Into this furrow, at flood 
 time, the stream overflowed further up, and irri- 
 gated the level sward. 
 
 At present it was dry, its course, traced by the 
 yellowish and white hue of the grasses in it only 
 recently under water, contrasting with the brilliant 
 green of the sweet turf around. There was a marsh 
 marigold in it, with stems a quarter of an inch 
 thick ; and in the grass on the verge, but just be- 
 yond where the flood reached, grew the lilac-tinted 
 cuckoo flowers, or cardamine. 
 
 The side hatch supplied a pond which was only 
 divided from the brook by a strip of sward not more 
 than twenty yards across. The surface of the pond 
 was dotted with patches of scum that had risen from 
 the bottom. Part at least of it was shallow, for a 
 dead branch blown from an elm projected above 
 the water, and to it came a sedge-reedling for a 
 moment. The sedge-reedling is so fond of sedges 
 68
 
 A BROOK 
 
 and reeds and thick undergrowth, that though you 
 hear it perpetually within a few yards it is not easy 
 to see one. On this bare branch the bird was well 
 displayed, and the streak by the eye was visible; 
 but he stayed there for a second or two only, and 
 then back again to the sedges and willows. 
 
 There were fish I felt sure as I left the spot 
 and returned along the dusty road, but where 
 were they? 
 
 On the sward by the wayside, among the nettles 
 and under the bushes, and on the mound the dark 
 green arum leaves grew everywhere, sometimes in 
 bunches close together. These bunches varied 
 in one place the leaves were all spotted with black 
 irregular blotches ; in another the leaves were with- 
 out such markings. When the root leaves of the 
 arum first push up, they are closely rolled together 
 in a pointed spike. 
 
 This, rising among the dead and matted leaves 
 of the autumn, occasionally passes through holes in 
 them. As the spike grows it lifts the dead leaves 
 with it, which hold it like a ring and prevent it 
 from unfolding. The force of growth is not suffi- 
 ciently strong to burst the bond asunder till the 
 green leaves have attained considerable size. 
 
 A little earlier in the year the chattering of mag- 
 pies would have been heard while looking for the 
 signs of spring, but they were now occupied with 
 -6 9 -
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 their nests. There are several within a short dis- 
 tance, easily distinguished in winter, but somewhat 
 hidden now by the young leaves. Just before they 
 settled down to housekeeping there was a great 
 chattering and fluttering and excitement, as they 
 chased each other from elm to elm. 
 
 Four or five were then often in the same field, 
 some in the trees, some on the ground, their white 
 and black showing distinctly on the level brown 
 earth recently harrowed or rolled. On such a sur- 
 face birds are visible at a distance ; but when the 
 blades of the corn begin to reach any height such 
 as alight are concealed. In many districts of the 
 country that might be called wild and lonely, the 
 magpie is almost extinct. Once now and then a 
 pair may be observed, and those who know their 
 haunts can, of course, find them, but to a visitor 
 passing through, there seems none. But here, so 
 near the metropolis, the magpies are common, and 
 during an hour's walk their cry is almost sure to be 
 heard. They have, however, their favourite locality, 
 where they are much more frequently seen. 
 
 Coming to my seat under the aspen by the 
 bridge week after week, the burdocks by the way- 
 side gradually spread their leaves, and the proces- 
 sion of the flowers went on. The dandelion, the 
 lesser celandine, the marsh marigold, the colts- 
 foot, all yellow, had already led the van, closely 
 70
 
 A BROOK gc~. ...j 
 
 accompanied by the purple ground-ivy, the red 
 dead nettle, and the daisy ; this last a late comer 
 in the neighbourhood. The blackthorn, the horse- 
 chestnut, and the hawthorn came, and the meadows 
 were golden with the buttercups. 
 
 Once only had I noticed any indication of fish 
 in the brook ; it was on a warm Saturday afternoon, 
 when there was a labourer a long way up the stream, 
 stooping in a peculiar manner near the edge of the 
 water with a stick in his hand. He was, I felt sure, 
 trying to wire a spawning jack, but did not suc- 
 ceed. Many weeks had passed, and now there 
 came (as the close time for coarse fish expired) 
 a concourse of anglers to the almost stagnant 
 pond fed by the side hatch. 
 
 Well-dressed lads with elegant and finished tackle 
 rode up on their bicycles, with their rods slung at 
 their backs. Hoisting the bicycles over the gate 
 into the meadow, they left them leaning against 
 the elms, fitted their rods and fished in the pond. 
 Poorer boys, with long wands cut from the hedge 
 and ruder lines, trudged up on foot, sat down on 
 the sward and watched their corks by the hour to- 
 gether. Grown men of the artisan class, covered 
 with the dust of many miles' tramping, came with 
 their luncheons in a handkerchief, and set about 
 their sport with a quiet earnestness which argued 
 long if desultory practice. 
 
 71
 
 5HE12 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 In fine weather there were often a dozen youths 
 and four or five men standing, sitting, or kneeling 
 on the turf along the shore of the pond, all intent 
 on their floats, and very nearly silent. People 
 driving along the highway stopped their traps and 
 carts and vans a minute or two to watch them : 
 passengers on foot leaned over the gate, or sat 
 down and waited expectantly. 
 
 Sometimes one of the more venturesome anglers 
 would tuck up his trousers and walk into the 
 shallow water, so as to be able to cast his bait 
 under the opposite bank, where it was deep. Then 
 an ancient and much battered punt was discovered 
 aground in a field at some distance, and dragged to 
 the pond. One end of the punt had quite rotted 
 away, but by standing at the other, so as to depress 
 it there and lift the open end above the surface, 
 two, or even three, could make a shift to fish 
 from it. 
 
 The silent and motionless eagerness with which 
 these anglers dwelt upon their floats, grave as 
 herons, could not have been exceeded. There 
 they were day after day, always patient and always 
 hopeful. Occasionally a small catch a mere 
 " bait " was handed round for inspection ; and 
 once a cunning fisherman, acquainted with all the 
 secrets of his craft, succeeded in drawing forth 
 three perch, perhaps a quarter of a pound each, and 
 71
 
 A BROOK 
 
 one slender eel. These made quite a show, and 
 were greatly admired ; but I never saw the same 
 man there again. He was satisfied. 
 
 As I sat on the white rail under the aspen, and 
 inhaled the scent of the beans flowering hard by, 
 there was a question which suggested itself to me, 
 and the answer to which I never could supply. 
 The crowd about the pond all stood with their 
 backs to the beautiful flowing brook. They had 
 before them the muddy banks of the stagnant pool, 
 on whose surface patches of scum floated. 
 
 Behind them was the delicious stream, clear and 
 limpid, bordered with sedge and willow and flags, 
 and overhung with branches. The strip of sward 
 between the two waters was certainly not more 
 than twenty yards; there was no division, hedge, 
 or railing, and evidently no preservation, for the 
 mouchers came and washed their water-cress which 
 they had gathered in the ditches by the side hatch, 
 and no one interfered with them. 
 
 There was no keeper or water bailiff", not even 
 a notice board. Policemen, on foot and mounted, 
 passed several times daily, and, like everybody else, 
 paused to see the sport, but said not a word. 
 Clearly, there was nothing whatever to prevent any 
 of those present from angling in the stream ; yet 
 they one and all, without exception, fished in the 
 pond. This seemed to me a very remarkable fact. 
 73
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 After a while I noticed another circumstance ; 
 nobody ever even looked into the stream or under 
 the arches of the bridge. No one spared a moment 
 from his float amid the scum of the pond, just to 
 stroll twenty paces and glance at the swift current. 
 It appeared from this that the pond had a reputa- 
 tion for fish, and the brook had not. Everybody 
 who had angled in the pond recommended his 
 friends to go and do likewise. There were fish in 
 the pond. 
 
 So every fresh comer went and angled there, and 
 accepted the fact that there were fish. Thus the 
 pond obtained a traditionary reputation, which cir- 
 culated from lip to lip round about. I need not 
 enlarge on the analogy that exists in this respect 
 between the pond and various other things. 
 
 By implication it was evidently as much under- 
 stood and accepted on the other hand that there 
 was nothing in the stream. Thus I reasoned it 
 out, sitting under the aspen, and yet somehow the 
 general opinion did not satisfy me. There must 
 be something in so sweet a stream. The sedges 
 by the shore, the flags in the shallow, slowly sway- 
 ing from side to side with the current, the sedge- 
 reedlings calling, the moorhens and water-rats, all 
 gave an air of habitation. 
 
 One morning, looking very gently over the para- 
 pet of the bridge (down stream) into the shadowy 
 74
 
 A BROOK 
 
 depth beneath, just as my eyes began to see the 
 bottom, something like a short thick dark stick 
 drifted out from the arch, somewhat sideways. 
 Instead of proceeding with the current, it had 
 hardly cleared the arch when it took a position 
 parallel to the flowing water and brought up. It 
 was thickest at the end that faced the stream ; at 
 the other there was a slight motion as if caused 
 by the current against a flexible membrane, as it 
 sways a flag. Gazing down intently into the 
 shadow, the colour of the sides of the fish appeared 
 at first not exactly uniform, and presently these 
 indistinct differences resolved themselves into spots. 
 It was a trout, perhaps a pound and a half in 
 weight. 
 
 His position was at the side of the arch, out of 
 the rush of the current, and almost behind the pier, 
 but where he could see anything that came floating 
 along under the culvert. Immediately above him 
 but not over was the mass of weeds tangled in the 
 dead branch. Thus in the shadow of the bridge 
 and in the darkness under the weeds he might 
 easily have escaped notice. He was, too, extremely 
 wary. The slightest motion was enough to send 
 him instantly under the arch ; his cover was but 
 a foot distant, and a trout shoots twelve inches in 
 a fraction of time. 
 
 The summer advanced, the hay was carted, and 
 75
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 the wheat ripened. Already here and there the 
 reapers had cut portions of the more forward corn. 
 As I sat from time to time under the aspen, within 
 hearing of the murmuring water, the thought did 
 rise occasionally that it was a pity to leave the trout 
 there till some one blundered into the knowledge 
 of his existence. 
 
 There were ways and means by which he could 
 be withdrawn without any noise or publicity. But, 
 then, what would be the pleasure of securing him, 
 the fleeting pleasure of an hour, compared to the 
 delight of seeing him almost day by day ? I 
 watched him for many weeks, taking great precau- 
 tions that no one should observe how continually 
 I looked over into the water there. Sometimes 
 after a glance I stood with my back to the wall as if 
 regarding an object on the other side. If any one 
 was following me, or appeared likely to peer over the 
 parapet, I carelessly struck the top of the wall with 
 my stick in such a manner that it should project, 
 an action sufficient to send the fish under the arch. 
 Or I raised my hat as if heated, and swung it so 
 that it should alarm him. 
 
 If the coast was clear when I had looked at him, 
 still I never left without sending him under the 
 arch in order to increase his alertness. It was a 
 relief to know that so many persons who went by 
 wore tall hats, a safeguard against their seeing any- 
 -76-
 
 A BROOK 
 
 thing, for if they approached the shadow of the 
 tall hat reached out beyond the shadow of the 
 parapet, and was enough to alarm him before they 
 could look over. So the summer passed, and, 
 though never free from apprehensions, to my great 
 pleasure without discovery. 
 
 77
 
 A LONDON TROUT 
 
 I, j i ^HE sword-flags are rusting at their edges, 
 and their sharp points are turned. On 
 the matted and entangled sedges lie 
 J \^ the scattered leaves which every rush 
 of the October wind hurries from the boughs. 
 Some fall on the water and float slowly with the 
 current, brown and yellow spots on the dark sur- 
 face. The grey willows bend to the breeze; soon 
 the osier beds will look reddish as the wands are 
 stripped by the gusts. Alone the thick polled 
 alders remain green, and in their shadow the brook 
 is still darker. Through a poplar's thin branches 
 the wind sounds as in the rigging of a ship ; for 
 the rest, it is silence. 
 
 The thrushes have not forgotten the frost of the 
 morning, and will not sing at noon ; the summer 
 visitors have flown, and the moorhens feed quietly. 
 The plantation by the brook is silent, for the 
 sedges, though they have drooped and become en- 
 tangled, are not dry and sapless yet to rustle loudly. 
 They will rustle dry enough next spring, when the 
 sedge-birds come. A long withey-bed borders the 
 -78-
 
 A LONDON TROUT 
 
 brook, and is more resorted to by sedge-reedlings, 
 or sedge-birds, as they are variously called, than 
 any place I know, even in the remotest country. 
 
 Generally it has been difficult to see them, be- 
 cause the withey is in leaf when they come, and 
 the leaves and sheaves of innumerable rods hide 
 them, while the ground beneath is covered by a 
 thick growth of sedges and flags, to which the 
 birds descend. It happened once, however, that 
 the withey stoles had been polled, and in the spring 
 the boughs were short and small. At the same 
 time, the easterly winds checked the sedges, so that 
 they were hardly half their height, and the flags 
 were thin, and not much taller, when the sedge- 
 birds came, so that they for once found but little 
 cover, and could be seen to advantage. 
 
 There could not have been less than fifteen in 
 the plantation, two frequented some bushes beside 
 a pond near by, some stayed in scattered willows 
 farther down the stream. They sang so much 
 they scarcely seemed to have time to feed. While 
 approaching one that was singing by gently walk- 
 ing on the sward by the road-side, or where thick 
 dust deadened the footsteps, suddenly another would 
 commence in the low thorn hedge on a branch, so 
 near that it could be touched with a walking stick. 
 Yet though so near the bird was not wholly visible 
 he was partly concealed behind a fork of the 
 79
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 bough. This is a habit of the sedge-birds. Not 
 in the least timid, they chatter at your elbow, and 
 yet always partially hidden. 
 
 If in the withey, they choose a spot where the 
 rods cross or bunch together. If in the sedges, 
 though so close it seems as if you could reach for- 
 ward and catch him, he is behind the stalks. To 
 place some obstruction between themselves and any 
 one passing is their custom ; but that spring, as the 
 foliage was so thin, it only needed a little dexterity 
 in peering to get a view. The sedge-bird perches 
 aside, on a sloping willow rod, and, slightly raising 
 his head, chatters, turning his bill from side to side. 
 He is a very tiny bird, and his little eye looks out 
 from under a yellowish streak. His song at first 
 sounds nothing but chatter. 
 
 After listening a while the ear finds a scale in 
 it an arrangement and composition so that, 
 though still a chatter, it is a tasteful one. At in- 
 tervals he intersperses a chirp, exactly the same as 
 that of the sparrow, a chirp with a tang in it. 
 Strike a piece of metal, and besides the noise of the 
 blow, there is a second note, or tang. The spar- 
 row's chirp has such a note sometimes, and the 
 sedge-bird brings it in tang, tang, tang. This 
 sound has given him his country name of brook- 
 sparrow, and it rather spoils his song. Often the 
 moment he has concluded he starts for another 
 80
 
 A LONDON TROUT 
 
 willow stole, and as he flies begins to chatter when 
 half-way across, and finishes on a fresh branch. 
 
 But long before this another bird has commenced 
 to sing in a bush adjacent ; a third takes it up in 
 the thorn hedge; a fourth in the bushes across the 
 pond; and from farther down the stream comes a 
 faint and distant chatter. Ceaselessly the compet- 
 ing gossip goes on the entire day and most of the 
 night ; indeed sometimes all night through. On a 
 warm spring morning, when the sunshine pours 
 upon the willows, and even the white dust of the 
 road is brighter, bringing out the shadows in clear 
 definition, their lively notes and quick motions 
 make a pleasant commentary on the low sound of 
 the stream rolling round the curve. 
 
 A moorhen's call comes from the hatch. Broad 
 yellow petals of marsh-marigold stand up high 
 among the sedges rising from the greyish-green 
 ground, which is covered with a film of sun-dried 
 aquatic grass left dry by the retiring waters. Here 
 and there are lilac-tinted cuckoo-flowers, drawn 
 up on taller stalks than those that grow in the 
 meadows. The black flowers of the sedges are 
 powdered with yellow pollen ; and dark green 
 sword-flags are beginning to spread their fans. 
 But just across the road, on the topmost twigs of 
 birch poles, swallows twitter in the tenderest tones 
 to their loves. From the oaks in the meadows on
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 that side titlarks mount above the highest bough 
 and then descend, sing, sing, singing, to the grass. 
 
 A jay calls in a circular copse in the midst of 
 the meadow ; solitary rooks go over to their nests 
 in the elms on the hill ; cuckoos call, now this 
 way and now that, as they travel round. While 
 leaning on the grey and lichen-hung rails by the 
 brook, the current glides by, and it is the motion 
 of the water and its low murmur which renders 
 the place so idle ; the sunbeams brood, the air is 
 still but full of song. Let us, too, stay and watch 
 the petals fall one by one from a wild apple and 
 float down on the stream. 
 
 But now in autumn the haws are red on the 
 thorn, the swallows are few as they were in the 
 earliest spring ; the sedge-birds have flown, and 
 the redwings will soon be here. The sharp points 
 of the sword-flags are turned, their edges rusty, 
 the forget-me-nots are gone. October's winds are 
 too searching for us to linger beside the brook, 
 but still it is pleasant to pass by and remember the 
 summer days. For the year is never gone by ; in 
 a moment we can recall the sunshine we enjoyed 
 in May, the roses we gathered in June, the first 
 wheatear we plucked as the green corn filled, 
 Other events go by and are forgotten, and even 
 the details of our own lives, so immensely impor- 
 tant to us at the moment, in time fade from the 
 82
 
 A LONDON TROUT 
 
 memory till the date we fancied we should never 
 forget has to be sought in a -diary. But the year 
 is always with us ; the months are familiar always ; 
 they have never gone by. 
 
 So with the red haws around and the rustling 
 leaves it is easy to recall the flowers. The withey 
 plantation here is full of flowers in summer; 
 yellow iris flowers in June when midsummer 
 comes, for the iris loves a thunder-shower. The 
 flowering flag spreads like a fan from the root, the 
 edges overlap near the ground, and the leaves are 
 broad as swordblades, indeed the plant is one of 
 the largest that grows wild. It is quite different 
 from the common flag with three grooves bayo- 
 net shape which appears in every brook. The 
 yellow iris is much more local, and in many coun- 
 try streams may be sought for in vain, so that so 
 fine a display as may be seen here seemed almost a 
 discovery to me. 
 
 They were finest in the year of rain, 1879, that 
 terrible year which is fresh in the memory of all 
 who have any interest in out-of-door matters. At 
 midsummer the plantation was aglow with iris 
 bloom. The large yellow petals were everywhere 
 high above the sedge; in one place a dozen, then 
 two or three, then one by itself, then another 
 bunch. The marsh was a foot deep in water, 
 which could only be seen by parting the stalks of 
 -83-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 the sedges, for it was quite hidden under them. 
 Sedges and flags grew so thick that everything was 
 concealed except the yellow bloom above. 
 
 One bunch grew on a bank raised a few inches 
 above the flood which the swollen brook had 
 poured in, and there I walked among them ; the 
 leaves came nearly up to the shoulder, the golden 
 flowers on the stalks stood equally high. It was 
 a thicket of iris. Never before had they risen to 
 such a height ; it was like the vegetation of tropical 
 swamps, so much was everything drawn up by the 
 continual moisture. Who could have supposed 
 that such a downpour as occurred that summer 
 would have had the effect it had upon flowers ? 
 Most would have imagined that the excessive rain 
 would have destroyed them ; yet never was there 
 such floral beauty as that year. Meadow orchis, 
 buttercups, the yellow iris, all the spring flowers 
 came forth in extraordinary profusion. The hay 
 was spoiled, the farmers ruined, but their fields 
 were one broad expanse of flower. 
 
 As that spring was one of the wettest, so that 
 of the year in present view was one of the driest, 
 and hence the plantation between the lane and the 
 brook was accessible, the sedges and flags short, 
 and the sedge-birds visible. There is a beech in 
 the plantation standing so near the verge of the 
 stream that its boughs droop over. It has a num- 
 _8 4 -
 
 sE^cig A LONDON TROUT 
 
 her of twigs around the stem as a rule the 
 beechbole is clear of boughs, but some which are 
 of rather stunted growth are fringed with them. 
 The leaves on the longer boughs above fall off and 
 voyage down the brook, but those on the lesser 
 twigs beneath, and only a little way from the 
 ground, remain on, and rustle, dry and brown, all 
 through the winter. 
 
 Under the shelter of these leaves, and close to 
 the trunk, there grew a plant of flag the tops of 
 the flags almost reached to the leaves and all 
 the winter through, despite the frosts for which 
 it was remarkable, despite the snow and the bitter 
 winds which followed, this plant remained green 
 and fresh. From this beech in the morning a 
 shadow stretches to a bridge across the brook, and 
 in that shadow my trout used to lie. The bank 
 under the drooping boughs forms a tiny clifF a foot 
 high, covered with moss, and here I once observed 
 shrew mice diving and racing about. But only 
 once, though I frequently passed the spot ; it is 
 curious that I did not see them afterwards. 
 
 Just below the shadow of the beech there is a 
 sandy oozy shore, where the footprints of moor- 
 hens are often traceable. Many of the trees of 
 the plantation stand in water after heavy rain ; 
 their leaves drop into it in autumn, and, being 
 away from the influence of the current, stay and 
 -85-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 soak, and lie several layers thick. Their edges 
 overlap, red, brown, and pale yellow, with the 
 clear water above and shadows athwart it, and dry 
 white grass at the verge. A horse-chestnut drops 
 its fruit in the dusty road ; high above its leaves 
 are tinted with scarlet. 
 
 It was at the tail of one of the arches of the 
 bridge over the brook that my favourite trout used 
 to lie. Sometimes the shadow of the beech came 
 as far as his haunts, that was early in the morning, 
 and for the rest of the day the bridge itself cast a 
 shadow. The other parapet faces the south, and 
 looking down from it the bottom of the brook is 
 generally visible, because the light is so strong. 
 At the bottom a green plant may be seen waving 
 to and fro in summer as the current sways it. 
 It is not a weed or flag, but a plant with pale green 
 leaves, and looks as if it had come there by some 
 chance ; this is the water-parsnip. 
 
 By the shore on this, the sunny side of the 
 bridge, a few forget-me-nots grow in their season, 
 water crow's-foot flowers, flags lie along the sur- 
 face and slowly swing from side to side like a 
 boat at anchor. The breeze brings a ripple, and 
 the sunlight sparkles on it ; the light reflected 
 dances up the piers of the bridge. Those that 
 pass along the road are naturally drawn to this 
 bright parapet where the brook winds brimming
 
 A LONDON TROUT 
 
 full through green meadows. You can see right 
 to the bottom ; you can see where the rush of the 
 water has scooped out a deeper channel under the 
 arches, but look as long as you like there are no 
 fish. 
 
 The trout I watched so long, and with such 
 pleasure, was always on the other side, at the tail 
 of the arch, waiting for whatever might come 
 through to him. There in perpetual shadow he 
 lay in wait, a little at the side of the arch, scarcely 
 ever varying his position except to dart a yard up 
 under the bridge to seize anything he fancied, and 
 drifting out again to bring up at his anchorage. 
 If people looked over the parapet that side, they did 
 not see him ; they could not see the bottom there 
 for the shadow, or if the summer noonday cast a 
 strong beam, even then it seemed to cover the sur- 
 face of the water with a film of light which could 
 not be seen through. There are some aspects 
 from which even a picture hung on the wall close 
 at hand cannot be seen. So no one saw the trout ; 
 if any one more curious leant over the parapet, he 
 was gone in a moment under the arch. 
 
 Folk fished in the pond about the verge of which 
 the sedge-birds chattered, and but a few yards dis- 
 tant ; but they never looked under the arch on the 
 northern and shadowy side, where the water flowed 
 beside the beech. For three seasons this con- 
 8 7
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 tinued. For three summers I had the pleasure to 
 see the trout day after day whenever I walked that 
 way, and all that time, with fishermen close at 
 hand, he escaped notice, though the place was not 
 preserved. It is wonderful to think how difficult 
 it is to see anything under one's very eyes, and 
 thousands of people walked actually and physically 
 right over the fish. 
 
 However, one morning in the third summer, I 
 found a fisherman standing in the road and fishing 
 over the parapet in the shadowy water. But he 
 was fishing at the wrong arch, and only with paste 
 for roach. While the man stood there fishing, 
 along came two navvies ; naturally enough they 
 went quietly up to see what the fisherman was 
 doing, and one instantly uttered an exclamation. 
 He had seen the trout. The man who was fish- 
 ing with paste had stood so still and patient that 
 the trout, re-assured, had come out, and the 
 navvy trust a navvy to see anything of the kind 
 caught sight of him. 
 
 The navvy knew how to see through water. He 
 told the fisherman, and there was a stir of ex- 
 citement, a changing of hooks and bait. I could 
 not stay to see the result, but went on, fearing the 
 worst. But he did not succeed; next day the 
 wary trout was there still, and the next, and 
 the next. Either this particular fisherman was not
 
 A LONDON TROUT 
 
 able to come again, or was discouraged ; at any 
 rate, he did not try again. The fish escaped, 
 doubtless more wary than ever. 
 
 In the spring of the next year the trout was still 
 there, and up to the summer I used to go and glance 
 at him. This was the fourth season, and still he 
 was there ; I took friends to look at this wonder- 
 ful fish, which defied all the loafers and poach- 
 ers, and, above all, surrounded himself not only 
 with the shadow of the bridge, but threw a mental 
 shadow over the minds of passers-by, so that they 
 never thought of the possibility of such a thing 
 as trout. But one morning something happened. 
 The brook was dammed up on the sunny side of 
 the bridge, and the water let off by a side-hatch, 
 that some accursed main or pipe or other horror 
 might be laid across the bed of the stream some- 
 where far down. 
 
 Above the bridge there was a brimming broad 
 brook, below it the flags lay on the mud, the weeds 
 drooped, and the channel was dry. It was dry up 
 to the beech tree. There, under the drooping 
 boughs of the beech, was a small pool of muddy 
 water, perhaps two yards long, and very narrow 
 a stagnant muddy pool, not more than three or 
 four inches deep. In this I saw the trout. In 
 the shallow water, his back came up to the surface 
 (for his fins must have touched the mud sometimes) 
 -89-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 once it came above the surface, and his spots 
 showed as plain as if you had held him in your 
 hand. He was swimming round to try and find 
 out the reason of this sudden stinting of room. 
 
 Twice he heaved himself somewhat on his side 
 over a dead branch that was at the bottom, and 
 exhibited all his beauty to the air and sunshine. 
 Then he went away into another part of the 
 shallow and was hidden by the muddy water. Now 
 under the arch of the bridge, his favorite arch, 
 close by there was a deep pool, for, as already 
 mentioned, the scour of the current scooped away 
 the sand and made a hole there. When the stream 
 was shut off by the dam above, this hole remained 
 partly full. Between this pool and the shallow 
 under the beech there was sufficient connection 
 for the fish to move into it. 
 
 My only hope was that he would do so, and as 
 some showers fell, temporarily increasing the depth 
 of the narrow canal between the two pools, there 
 seemed every reason to believe that he had got to 
 that under the arch. If now only that accursed 
 pipe or main, or whatever repair it was, could 
 only be finished quickly, even now the trout might 
 escape ! Every day my anxiety increased, for the 
 intelligence would soon get about that the brook 
 was dammed up, and any pools left in it would be 
 sure to attract attention. 
 
 90
 
 A LONDON TROUT 
 
 Sunday came, and directly the bells had done 
 ringing four men attacked the pool under the arch. 
 They took off shoes and stockings and waded in, 
 two at each end of the arch. Stuck in the mud 
 close by was an eel-spear. They churned up the 
 mud, wading in, and thickened and darkened it as 
 they groped under. No one could watch these 
 barbarians longer. 
 
 Is it possible that he could have escaped ? He 
 was a wonderful fish, wary and quick. Is it just 
 possible that they may not even have known that 
 a trout was there at all ; but have merely hoped 
 for perch, or tench, or eels ? The pool was deep 
 and the fish quick they did not bale it, might he 
 have escaped ? Might they even, if they did find 
 him, have mercifully taken him and placed him 
 alive in some other water nearer their homes ? Is 
 it possible that he may have almost miraculously 
 made his way down the stream into other pools ? 
 
 There was very heavy rain one night, which 
 might have given him such a chance. These 
 " mights," and " ifs," and " is it possible " even 
 now keep alive some little hope that some day 
 I may yet see him again. But that was in the 
 early summer. It is now winter, and the beech 
 has brown spots. Among the limes the sedges are 
 matted and entangled, the sword-flags rusty ; the 
 rooks are at the acorns, and the plough is at work 
 91
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 in the stubble. I have never seen him since. 
 I never failed to glance over the parapet into 
 the shadowy water. Somehow it seemed to look 
 colder, darker, less pleasant than it used to do. 
 The spot was empty, and the shrill winds whistled 
 through the poplars.
 
 A BARN 
 
 j<A BROAD red roof of tile is a conspicuous 
 l/\ \ object on the same road which winds 
 
 lr==\ \ and turns in true crooked country fash- 
 *JL } V ion, with hedgerows, trees, and fields 
 on both sides, and scarcely a dwelling visible. It 
 is not, indeed, so crooked as a lane in Gloucester- 
 shire, which I verily believe passes the same tree 
 thrice, but the curves are frequent enough to vary 
 the view pleasantly. 
 
 Approaching from either direction, on turning a 
 certain corner a great red roof rises high above the 
 hedges, and the line of its ridge is seen every way 
 through the trees. With this old barn, as with so 
 much of the architecture of former times, the roof 
 is the most important part. The gables, for in- 
 stance, of Elizabethan houses occupy the eye far 
 more than the walls; and so, too, with the antique 
 halls that still exist. The roof of this old barn is 
 itself the building ; the roof and the doors, for the 
 sweeping slope of the tiles comes down within 
 reach of the hand, while the great doors extend 
 half-way to the ridge. 
 
 93
 
 ~-^g NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 By the low black wooden walls a little chaff has 
 been spilt, and has blown out and mingles with 
 the dust of the road. Loose straws lie across the 
 footpath, trodden flat by passing feet; straws have 
 wandered across the road and lodged on the mound, 
 and others have roamed still farther round the 
 corner. Between the gatepost and the wall that 
 encloses the rickyard more straws are jammed, and 
 yet more are borne up by the nettles beneath it. 
 
 Mosses have grown over the old red brick wall, 
 both on the top and following the lines of the 
 mortar, and bunches of wall grasses flourish along 
 the top. The wheat, and barley, and hay carted 
 home to the rickyard contain the seeds of innum- 
 erable plants, many of which, dropping to the 
 ground, come up next year. The trodden earth 
 round where the ricks stood seems favourable to 
 their early appearance ; the first poppy blooms 
 here, though its colour is paler than those which 
 come afterwards in the fields. 
 
 In spring most of the ricks are gone, threshed 
 and sold, but there remains the vast pile of straw 
 always straw and the three-cornered stump 
 of a hay-rick which displays bands of different 
 hues, one above the other, like the strata of a 
 geological map. Some of the hay was put up 
 damp, some in good condition, and some had been 
 browned by bad weather before being carted. 
 94
 
 A BARN 
 
 About the straw-rick, and over the chaff that 
 everywhere strews the earth, numerous fowls search, 
 and by the gateway Chanticleer proudly stands, tall 
 and upright, the king of the rickyard still, as he 
 and his ancestors have been these hundreds of 
 years. Under the granary, which is built on stone 
 staddles, to exclude the mice, some turkeys are 
 huddled together calling occasionally for a " halter," 
 and beyond them the green, glossy neck of a drake 
 glistens in the sunshine. 
 
 When the corn is high, and sometimes before it 
 is well up, the doors of the barn are daily open, 
 and shock-headed children peer over the hatch. 
 There are others within playing and tumbling on 
 aheap of straw always straw which is their 
 bed at night. The sacks which form their coun- 
 terpane are rolled aside, and they have half the 
 barn for their nursery. If it is wet, at least one 
 great girl and the mother will be there too, gravely 
 sewing, and sitting where they can see all that goes 
 along the road. 
 
 A hundred yards away, in a corner of an arable 
 field, the very windiest and most draughty that 
 could be chosen, where the hedge is cut down so 
 that it can barely be called a hedge, and where the 
 elms draw the wind, the men of the family crowd 
 over a smoky fire. In the wind and rain the fire 
 could not burn at all had they not by means of a 
 95
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 stick propped up a hurdle to windward, and thus 
 sheltered it. As it is, there seems no flame, only 
 white embers and a flow of smoke, into which the 
 men from time to time cast the dead wood they 
 have gathered. Here the pot is boiled and the 
 cooking accomplished at a safe distance from the 
 litter and straw of the rickvard. 
 
 These people are Irish, who come year after 
 year to the same barn for the hoeing and the 
 harvest, travelling from the distant West to gather 
 agricultural wages on the verge of the metropolis. 
 
 In fine summer weather, beside the usual busi- 
 ness traffic, there goes past this windy bare corner 
 a constant stream of pleasure-seekers, heavily laden 
 four-in-hands, tandems, dog-carts, equestrians, and 
 open carriages, filled with well-dressed ladies. They 
 represent the abundant gold of trade and com- 
 merce. In their careless luxury they do not notice 
 how should they ? the smoky fire in the 
 barren corner, or the shock-headed children staring 
 at the equipages over the hatch at the barn. 
 
 Within a mile there is a similar fire, which by 
 day is not noticeable, because the spot is under a 
 hedge two meadows back from the road. At night 
 it shows brightly, and even as late as eleven o'clock 
 dusky figures may be seen about it, as if the family 
 slept in the open air. A third fire is kept up in 
 the same neighbourhood, but in a different direc- 
 _ 9 6-
 
 ^u A BARN 
 
 tion, in a meadow bordering on a lonely lane. 
 There is a thatched shed behind the hedge, which 
 is the sleeping-place the fire burns some forty 
 yards away. Still another shines at night in an 
 open arable field, where is a barn. 
 
 One day I observed a farmer's courtyard com- 
 pletely filled with groups of men, women, and 
 children, who had come travelling round to do the 
 harvesting. They had with them a small cart or 
 van not of the kind which the show folk use as 
 moveable dwellings, but for the purpose of carrying 
 their pots, pans, and the like. The greater number 
 carry their burdens on their backs, trudging afoot. 
 
 A gang of ten or twelve once gathered round me 
 to inquire the direction of some spot they desired to 
 reach. A powerful-looking woman, with reaping- 
 hook in her hand and cooking implements over 
 her shoulder, was the speaker. The rest did not 
 appear to know a word of English, and her pro- 
 nunciation was so peculiar that it was impossible 
 to understand what she meant except by her ges- 
 tures. I suppose she wanted to find a farm, the 
 name of which I could not get at, and then per- 
 ceiving she was not understood her broad face 
 flushed red and she poured out a flood of Irish in 
 her excitement. The others chimed in, and the 
 din redoubled. At last I caught the name of a 
 town and was thus able to point the way. 
 7 -97-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 About harvest time it is common to meet an 
 Irish labourer dressed in the national costume : a 
 tall, upright fellow with a long-tailed coat, breeches, 
 and worsted stockings. He walks as upright as if 
 drilled, with a quick easy gait and springy step, 
 quite distinct from the Saxon stump. When the 
 corn is cut these bivouac fires go out, and the camp 
 disappears, but the white ashes remain, and next 
 season the smoke will rise again. 
 
 The barn here with its broad red roof, and the 
 rickyard with the stone staddles, and the litter of 
 chaff and straw, is the central rendezvous all the 
 year of the resident labourers. Day by day, and at 
 all hours, there is sure to be some of them about 
 the place. The stamp of the land is on them. 
 They border on the city, but are as distinctly agri- 
 cultural and as immediately recognisable as in the 
 heart of the country. This sturdy carter, as he 
 comes round the corner of the straw-rick, cannot 
 be mistaken. 
 
 He is short, and thickly set, a man of some fifty 
 years, but hard and firm of make. His face is 
 broad and red, his shiny fat cheeks almost as promi- 
 nent as his stumpy nose, likewise red and shiny. 
 A fringe of reddish whiskers surrounds his chin 
 like a cropped hedge. The eyes are small and set 
 deeply, a habit of half closing the lids when walk- 
 ing in the teeth of the wind and rain has caused 
 _ 9 8-
 
 A BARN 
 
 them to appear still smaller. The wi inkles at the 
 corners and the bushy eyebrows are more visible 
 and pronounced than the eyes themselves, which 
 are mere bright grey points twinkling with compla- 
 cent good humour. 
 
 These red cheeks want but the least motion to 
 break into a smile ; the action of opening the lips 
 to speak is sufficient to give that expression. The 
 fur cap he wears allows the round shape of his head 
 to be seen, and the thick neck which is the colour 
 of a brick. He trudges deliberately round the straw- 
 rick ; there is something in the style of the man 
 which exactly corresponds to the barn, and the 
 straw, and the stone staddles, and the waggons. 
 Could we look back three hundred years, just such 
 a man would be seen in the midst of the same 
 surroundings, deliberately trudging round the straw- 
 ricks of Elizabethan days, calm and complacent 
 though the Armada be at hand. There are the 
 ricks just the same, there is the barn, and the 
 horses are in good case ; the wheat is coming on 
 well. Armies may march, but these are the same. 
 
 When his waggon creaks along the road towards 
 the town, his eldest lad walks proudly by the 
 leader's head, and two younger boys ride in the 
 vehicle. They pass under the great elms ; now 
 the sunshine and now the shadow falls upon them ; 
 the horses move with measured step and without 
 99
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON ae^ 
 
 haste, and both horses and human folks are con- 
 tent in themselves. 
 
 As you sit in summer on the beach and gaze 
 afar over the blue waters scarcely flecked with 
 foam, how slowly the distant ship moves along the 
 horizon. It is almost, but not quite, still. You 
 go to lunch and return, and the vessel is still there; 
 what patience the man at the wheel must have. 
 So, now, resting here on the stile, see the plough 
 yonder, travelling as it were with all sails set. 
 
 Three shapely horses in line draw the share. 
 The traces are taut, the swing-tree like a yard 
 braced square, the helmsman at the tiller bears hard 
 upon the stilts. But does it move ? The leading 
 horse, seen distinct against the sky, lifts a hoof and 
 places it down again, stepping in the last furrow 
 made. But then there is a perceptible pause before 
 the next hoof rises, and yet again a perceptible 
 delay in the pull of the muscles. The stooping 
 ploughman walking in the new furrow, with one 
 foot often on the level and the other in the hollow, 
 sways a little with the lurch of his implement, but 
 barely drifts ahead. 
 
 While watched they scarcely move ; but now 
 look away for a time and on returning the plough 
 itself and the lower limbs of the ploughman and 
 the horses are out of sight. They have gone over 
 a slope, and are " hull down " ; a few minutes
 
 A BARN 
 
 more, and they disappear behind the ridge. Look 
 away again and read or dream, as you would on 
 the beach, and then, see, the head and shoulders 
 of the leading horse are up, and by-and-by the 
 plough rises, as they come back on the opposite 
 tack. Thus the long hours slowly pass. 
 
 Intent day after day upon the earth beneath his 
 feet, or upon the tree in the hedge yonder, by 
 which, as by a lighthouse, he strikes out a straight 
 furrow, his mind absorbs the spirit of the land. 
 When the plough pauses, as he takes out his bread 
 and cheese in the corner of the field for luncheon, 
 he looks over the low cropped hedge and sees far 
 off the glitter of the sunshine on the glass roof of 
 the Crystal Palace. The light plays and dances 
 on it, flickering as on rippling water. But, though 
 hard by, he is not of London. The horses go on 
 again, and his gaze is bent down upon the furrow. 
 
 A mile or so up the road there is a place where 
 it widens, and broad strips of sward run parallel on 
 both sides. Beside the path, but just off it, so as 
 to be no obstruction, an aged man stands watching 
 his sheep. He has stood there so long that at last 
 the restless sheep dog has settled down on the 
 grass. He wears a white smock-frock, and leans 
 heavily on his long staff, which he holds with both 
 hands, propping his chest upon it. His face is set 
 in a frame of white white hair, white whiskers,
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON s^3J 
 
 short white beard. It is much wrinkled with 
 years ; but still has a hale and hearty hue. 
 
 The sheep are only on their way from one part 
 of the farm to another, perhaps half a mile ; but 
 they have already been an hour, and will probably 
 occupy another, in getting there. Some are feed- 
 ing steadily ; some are in a gateway, doing noth- 
 ing, like their pastor ; if they were on the loneliest 
 slope of the Downs, he and they could not be 
 more unconcerned. Carriages go past, and neither 
 the sheep nor the shepherd turn to look. 
 
 Suddenly there comes a hollow booming sound 
 a roar, mellowed and subdued by distance, with 
 a peculiar beat upon the ear, as if a wave struck 
 the nerve and rebounded and struck again in an 
 infinitesimal fraction of time such a sound as 
 can only bellow from the mouth of cannon. An- 
 other and another. The big guns at Woolwich 
 are at work. The shepherd takes no heed 
 neither he nor his sheep. 
 
 His ears must acknowledge the sound, but his 
 mind pays no attention. He knows of nothing 
 but his sheep. You may brush by him along the 
 footpath and it is doubtful if he sees you. But 
 stay and speak about the sheep, and instantly he 
 looks you in the face and answers with interest. 
 
 Round the corner of the straw-rick by the red- 
 roofed barn there comes another man, this time
 
 A BARN 
 
 with smoke-blackened face, and bringing with him 
 an odour of cotton waste and oil. He is the 
 driver of a steam ploughing-engine, whose broad 
 wheels in summer leave their impression in the 
 deep white dust of the roads, and in moist weather 
 sink into the soil at the gateways and leave their 
 mark as perfect as in wax. But though familiar 
 with valves, and tubes, and gauges, spending his 
 hours polishing brass and steel, and sometimes 
 busy with spanner and hammer, his talk, too, is 
 of the fields. 
 
 He looks at the clouds, and hopes it will con- 
 tinue fine enough to work. Like many others of 
 the men who are employed on the farms about 
 town, he came originally from a little village a 
 hundred miles away, in the heart of the country. 
 The stamp of the land is on him, too. 
 
 Besides the Irish, who pass in gangs and gener- 
 ally have a settled destination, many agricultural 
 folk drift along the roads and lanes searching for 
 work. They are sometimes alone, or in couples, 
 or they are a man and his wife, and carry hoes. 
 You can tell them as far as you can see them, for 
 they stop and look over every gateway to note 
 how the crop is progressing, and whether any 
 labour is required. 
 
 On Saturday afternoons, among the crowd of 
 customers at the shops in the towns, under the 
 103
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 very shadow of the almost palatial villas of wealthy 
 " City " men, there may be seen women whose 
 dress and talk at once mark them out as agricul- 
 tural. They have come in on foot from distant 
 farms for a supply of goods, and will return heavily 
 laden. No town-bred woman, however poor, would 
 dress so plainly as these cottage matrons. Their 
 daughters who go with them have caught the finery 
 of the town, and they do not mean to stay in the 
 cottage. 
 
 There is a bleak arable field, on somewhat 
 elevated ground, not very far from the same old 
 barn. In the corner of this field for the last two 
 or three years a great pit of roots has been made : 
 that is, the roots are piled together and covered 
 with straw and earth. When this mound is 
 opened in the early spring, a stout, elderly woman 
 takes her seat beside it, bill-hook in hand, and there 
 she sits the day through, trimming the roots one by 
 one, and casting those that she has prepared aside 
 ready to be carted away to the cattle. 
 
 A hurdle or two propped up with stakes, and 
 against which some of the straw from a mound 
 has been thrown, keeps off some of the wind. 
 But the easterly breezes sweeping over the bare 
 upland must rush round and over that slight bul- 
 wark with force but little broken. Holding the 
 root in the left hand, she turns it round and slashes 
 104
 
 A BARN 
 
 off the projections with quick blows, which seem 
 to only just miss her ringers, laughing and talking 
 the while with two children who have brought her 
 some refreshment, and who roll and tumble and 
 play about her. The scene might be bodily re- 
 moved and set down a hundred miles away, in the 
 midst of a western county, and would there be 
 perfectly at one with the surroundings. 
 
 Here, as she sits and chops, the east wind brings 
 the boom of trains continually rolling over an iron 
 bridge to and from the metropolis. She was there 
 two successive seasons to my knowledge; she, too, 
 had the stamp of the land upon her. 
 
 The broad sward where the white-haired shep- 
 herd so often stands watching his sheep feeding 
 along to this field, is decked in summer with many 
 flowers. By the hedge the agrimony frequently 
 lifts its long stem, surrounded with small yellow 
 petals. One day towards autumn I noticed a man 
 looking along a hedge, and found that he was 
 gathering this plant. He had a small armful of 
 the straggling stalks, from which the flowers were 
 then fading. The herb once had a medicinal 
 reputation, and, curious to know if it was still 
 remembered, I asked him the name of the herb, 
 and what it was for. He replied that it was 
 agrimony : " We makes tea of it, and it is good 
 for the flesh," or, as he pronounced it, "fleysh." 
 105
 
 WHEATFIELDS 
 
 ^HE cornfields immediately without Lon- 
 don on the southern side are among 
 the first to be reaped. Regular as if 
 
 wheat shows the slope of the ground, correspond- 
 ing to it, so that the glance travels swiftly and 
 unchecked across the fields. They scarce seem 
 divided, for the yellow ears on either side rise as 
 high as the cropped hedge between. 
 
 Red spots, like larger poppies, now appear above 
 and now dive down again beneath the golden sur- 
 face. These are the red caps worn by some of 
 the reapers ; some of the girls, too, have a red 
 scarf across the shoulder or round the waist. By 
 instinctive sympathy the heat of summer requires 
 the contrast of brilliant hues, of scarlet and gold, 
 of poppy and wheat. 
 
 A girl, as she rises from her stooping position, 
 turns a face, brown, as if stained with walnut juice, 
 towards me, the plain gold ring in her brown ear 
 gleams, so, too, the rings on her finger, nearly 
 black from the sun, but her dark eyes scarcely pause 
 1 06
 
 WHEATFIELDS 
 
 a second on a stranger. She is too busy, her tanned 
 fingers are at work again gathering up the cut 
 wheat. This is no gentle labour, but "hard hand- 
 play," like that in the battle of the olden time sung 
 by the Saxon poet. 
 
 The ceaseless stroke of the reaping-hook falls on 
 the ranks of the corn : the corn yields, but only 
 inch by inch. If the burning sun, or thirst, or 
 weariness forces the reaper to rest, the fight too 
 stays, the ranks do not retreat, and victory is only 
 won by countless blows. The boom of a bridge 
 as a train rolls over the iron girders resounds, and 
 the brazen dome on the locomotive is visible for a 
 moment as it passes across the valley. But no one 
 heeds it the train goes on its way to the great 
 city, the reapers abide by their labour. Men and 
 women, lads and girls, some mere children, judged 
 by their stature, are plunged as it were in the 
 wheat. 
 
 The few that wear bright colours are seen : the 
 many who do not are unnoticed. Perhaps the 
 dusky girl here with the red scarf may have some 
 strain of the gipsy, some far-off reminiscence of 
 the sunlit East which caused her to wind it about 
 her. The sheaf grows under her fingers, it is 
 bound about with a girdle of twisted stalks, in 
 which mingle the green bine of convolvulus and 
 the pink-streaked bells that must fade.
 
 ^S! NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 Heat comes down from above; heat comes up 
 from beneath, from the dry, white earth, from the 
 rows of stubble, as if emitted by the endless tubes 
 of cut stalks pointing upwards. Wheat is a plant 
 of the sun : it loves the heat, and heat crackles in 
 the rustle of the straw. The pimpernels above 
 which the hook passed are wide open : the larger 
 white convolvulus trumpets droop languidly on the 
 low hedge : the distant hills are dim with the va- 
 pour of heat ; the very clouds which stay motion- 
 less in the sky reflect a yet more brilliant light from 
 their white edges. Is there no shadow ? 
 
 There is no tree in the field, and the low hedge 
 can shelter nothing; but bordering the next, on 
 rather higher ground, is an ash copse, with some 
 few spruce firs. Resting on a rail in the shadow 
 of these firs, a light air now and again draws along 
 beside the nut-tree bushes of the hedge ; the cooler 
 atmosphere of the shadow, perhaps, causes it. Faint 
 as it is, it sways the heavy-laden brome grass, but 
 is not strong enough to lift a ball of thistledown 
 from the bennets among which it is entangled. 
 
 How swiftly the much-desired summer comes 
 upon us ! Even with the reapers at work before 
 one it is difficult to realise that it has not only 
 come, but will soon be passing away. Sweet sum- 
 mer is but just long enough for the happy loves 
 of the larks. It seems but yesterday, it is really 
 _ 108
 
 WHEATFIELDS 
 
 more than five months since, that, leaning against 
 the gate there, I watched a lark and his affianced 
 on the ground among the grey stubble of last year 
 still standing. 
 
 His crest was high and his form upright, he ran 
 a little way and then sang, went on again and sang 
 again to his love, moving parallel with him. Then 
 passing from the old dead stubble to fresh-turned 
 furrows, still they went side by side, now down in 
 the valley between the clods, now mounting the 
 ridges, but always together, always with song and 
 joy, till I lost them across the brown earth. But 
 even then from time to time came the sweet voice, 
 full of hope in coming summer. 
 
 The day declined, and from the clear, cold sky 
 of March the moon looked down, gleaming on the 
 smooth planed furrow where the plough had passed. 
 Scarce had she faded in the dawn ere the lark sang 
 again, high in the morning sky. The evenings 
 became dark ; still he rose above the shadows and 
 the dusky earth, and his song fell from the bosom 
 of the night. With full untiring choir the joyous 
 host heralded the birth of the corn ; the slender, 
 forceless seed leaves which came gently up till they 
 had risen above the proud crests of the lovers. 
 
 Time advanced, and the bare mounds about the 
 field, carefully cleaned by the husbandman, were 
 covered again with wild herbs and plants, like a 
 109
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 fringe to a garment of pure green. Parsley and 
 " gix," and clogvveed, and sauce-alone, whose white 
 flowers smell of garlic if crushed in the fingers, 
 came up along the hedge; by the gateway from the 
 bare trodden earth appeared the shepherd's purse ; 
 small must be the coin to go in its seed capsule, and 
 therefore it was so called with grim and truthful 
 humour, for the shepherd, hard as is his work, facing 
 wind and weather, carries home but little money. 
 
 Yellow charlock shot up faster and shone bright 
 above the corn ; the oaks showered down their 
 green flowers like moss upon the ground ; the tree 
 pipits sang on the branches and descending to the 
 wheat. The rusty chain-harrow, lying inside the 
 gate, all tangled together, was concealed with 
 grasses. Yonder the magpies fluttered over the 
 beans, among which they are always searching in 
 spring ; blackbirds, too, are fond of a beanfield. 
 
 Time advanced again, and afar on the slope 
 bright yellow mustard flowered, a hill of yellow 
 behind the elms. The luxuriant purple of trifo- 
 lium, acres of rich colour, glowed in the sunlight. 
 There was a scent of flowering beans, the vetches 
 were in flower, and the peas which clung together 
 for support the stalk of the pea goes through 
 the leaf as a painter thrusts his thumb through 
 his palette. Under the edge of the footpath 
 through the wheat a wild pansy blooms.
 
 WHEATFIELDS 
 
 Standing in the gateway beneath the shelter of 
 the elms as the clouds come over, it is pleasant to 
 hear the cool refreshing rain come softly down ; 
 the green wheat drinks it as it falls, so that hardly 
 a drop reaches the ground, and to-morrow it will 
 be as dry as ever. Wood-pigeons call from 
 the hedges, and blackbirds whistle in the trees ; 
 the sweet delicious rain refreshes them as it does 
 the corn. 
 
 Thunder mutters in the distance, and the electric 
 atmosphere rapidly draws the wheat up higher. 
 A few days' sunshine and the first wheatear appears. 
 Very likely there are others near, but standing 
 with their hood of green leaf towards you, and 
 therefore hidden. As the wheat comes into ear, it 
 is garlanded about with hedges in full flower. 
 
 It is midsummer, and midsummer, like a bride, 
 is decked in white. On the high-reaching briars 
 white June roses ; white flowers on the lowly 
 brambles ; broad white umbels of elder in the 
 corner, and white cornels blooming under the elm ; 
 honeysuckle hanging creamy white coronals round 
 the ash boughs ; white meadow-sweet flowering on 
 the shore of the ditch ; white clover, too, beside 
 the gateway. As spring is azure and purple, so 
 midsummer is white, and autumn golden. Thus 
 the coming out of the wheat into ear is marked and 
 welcomed with the purest colour.
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON asE^a: 
 
 But these, though the most prominent along the 
 hedge, are not the only flowers ; the prevalent 
 white is embroidered with other hues. The brown 
 feathers of a few reeds growing where the furrows 
 empty the showers into the ditch, wave above the 
 corn. Among the leaves of mallow its mauve 
 petals are sheltered from the sun. On slender 
 stalks the yellow vetchling blooms, reaching am- 
 bitiously as tall as the lowest of the brambles. 
 Bird's-foot lotus, with red claws, is overtopped by 
 the grasses. 
 
 The elm has a fresh green it has put forth its 
 second or midsummer shoot ; the young leaves of 
 the aspen are white, and the tree as the wind 
 touches it seems to turn grey. The furrows run 
 to the ditch under the reeds, the ditch declines to a 
 little streamlet which winds all hidden by willow- 
 herb and rush and flag, a mere trickle of water 
 under brooklime, away at the feet of the corn. In 
 the shadow, deep down beneath the crumbling 
 bank which is only held up by the roots of the 
 grasses, is a forget-me-not, with a tiny circlet of 
 yellow in the centre of its petals. 
 
 The coming of the ears of wheat forms an era 
 and a date, a fixed point in the story of the summer. 
 It is then that, soon after dawn, the clear sky 
 assumes the delicate and yet luscious purple which 
 seems to shine through the usual atmosphere, as if
 
 WHE ATFIELDS 
 
 its former blue became translucent, and an inner 
 and ethereal light of colour was shown. As the 
 sun rises higher the brilliance of his rays over- 
 powers it, and even at midsummer it is but rarely 
 seen. 
 
 The morning sky is often, too, charged with 
 saffron, or the blue is clear, but pale, and the sun- 
 rise might be watched for many mornings without 
 the appearance of this exquisite hue. Once seen, 
 it will ever be remembered. Upon the Downs in 
 early autumn, as the vapours clear away, the same 
 colour occasionally gleams from the narrow open- 
 ings of blue sky. But at midsummer, above the 
 opening wheatears, the heaven from the east to 
 the zenith is flushed with it. 
 
 At noonday, as the light breeze comes over, the 
 wheat rustles the more because the stalks are 
 stiffening and swing from side to side from the 
 root instead of yielding up the stem. Stay now at 
 every gateway and lean over while the midsummer 
 hum sounds above. It is a peculiar sound, not 
 like the querulous buzz of the honey, nor the 
 drone of the humble-bee, but a sharp ringing reso- 
 nance like that of a tuning-fork. Sometimes, in 
 the far-away country where it is often much louder, 
 the folk think it has a threatening note. 
 
 Here the barley has taken a different tint now 
 the beard is out ; here the oats are straggling forth
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 from their sheath ; here a pungent odour of mus- 
 tard in flower comes on the air ; there a poppy 
 faints with broad petals flung back and drooping, 
 unable to uphold its gorgeous robes. The flower 
 of the field pea, here again, would make a model 
 for a lady's hat ; so would a butterfly with closed 
 wings on the verge of a leaf; so would the broom 
 blossom, or the pink flower of the restharrow. 
 This hairy caterpillar, creeping along the hawthorn, 
 which, if touched, immediately coils itself in a ring, 
 very recently was thought a charm in distant 
 country places for some diseases of childhood, if 
 hung about the neck. Hedge mustard, yellow and 
 ragged and dusty, stands by the gateway. 
 
 In the evening, as the dew gathers on the grass, 
 which feels cooler to the hand some time before 
 an actual deposit, the clover and vetches close their 
 leaves the signal the hares have been waiting for 
 to venture from the sides of the fields where they 
 have been cautiously roaming, and take bolder 
 strolls across the open and along the lanes. The 
 aspens rustle louder in the stillness of the evening ; 
 their leaves not only sway to and fro, but semi- 
 rotate upon the stalks, which causes their scintil- 
 lating appearance. The stars presently shine from 
 the pale blue sky, and the wheat shimmers dimly 
 white beneath them. 
 
 So time advances till to-day, watching the
 
 WHEATFIELDS 
 
 reapers from the shadow of the copse, it seems as 
 if within that golden expanse there must be some- 
 thing hidden, could you but rush in quickly and 
 seize it some treasure of the sunshine ; and 
 there is a treasure, the treasure of life stored in 
 those little grains, the slow product of the sun. 
 But it cannot be grasped in an impatient moment 
 it must be gathered with labour. I have 
 threshed out in my hand three ears of the ripe 
 wheat : how many foot-pounds of human energy 
 do these few light grains represent ? 
 
 The roof of the Crystal Palace yonder gleams 
 and sparkles this afternoon as if it really were 
 crystal under the bright rays. But it was con- 
 cealed by mist when the ploughs in the months 
 gone by were guided in these furrows by men, 
 hard of feature and of hand, stooping to their toil. 
 The piercing east wind scattered the dust in clouds, 
 looking at a distance like small rain across the 
 field, when grey-coated men, grey too of beard, 
 followed the red drill to and fro. 
 
 How many times the horses stayed in this 
 sheltered corner while the ploughmen and their 
 lads ate their crusts ! How many times the farmer 
 and the bailiff, with hands behind their backs, con- 
 sidering, walked along the hedge taking counsel 
 of the earth if they had done right ! How many 
 times hard gold and silver was paid over at the 
 115
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 farmer's door for labour while yet the plant was 
 green ; how many considering cups of ale were 
 emptied in planning out the future harvest ! 
 
 Now it is come, and still more labour look at 
 the reapers yonder and after that more time and 
 more labour before the sacks go to the market. 
 Hard toil and hard fare : the bread which the reapers 
 have brought with them for their luncheon is hard 
 and dry, the heat has dried it like a chip. In the 
 corner of the field the women have gathered some 
 sticks and lit a fire the flame is scarce seen in 
 the sunlight, and the sticks seem eaten away as 
 they burn by some invisible power. They are 
 boiling a kettle, and their bread, too, which they 
 will soak in the tea, is dry and chip-like. Aside, 
 on the ground by the hedge, is a handkerchief tied 
 at the corners, with a few mushrooms in it. 
 
 The scented clover field the white campions 
 dot it here and there yields a rich, nectarous 
 food for ten thousand bees, whose hum comes 
 together with its odour on the air. But these men 
 and women and children ceaselessly toiling know 
 no such sweets ; their food is as hard as their 
 labour. How many foot-pounds, then, of human 
 energy do these grains in my hand represent ? Do 
 they not in their little compass contain the poten- 
 tialities, the past and the future, of human life 
 itself? 
 
 116
 
 W HE ATFIELD S 
 
 Another train booms, across the iron bridge in 
 the hollow. In a few hours now the carriages 
 will be crowded with men hastening home from 
 their toil in the City. The narrow streak of sun- 
 shine which day by day falls for a little while upon 
 the office floor, yellowed by the dingy pane, is all, 
 perhaps, to remind them of the sun and sky, of the 
 forces of nature ; and that little is unnoticed. The 
 pressure of business is so severe in these later days 
 that in the hurry and excitement it is not wonder- 
 ful many should forget that the world is not com- 
 prised in the court of a City thoroughfare. 
 
 Rapt and absorbed in discount and dollars, in 
 bills and merchandise, the over-strung mind deems 
 itself all the body is forgotten, the physical body, 
 which is subject to growth and change, just as the 
 plants and the very grass of the field. But there 
 is a subtle connection between the physical man 
 and the great nature which comes pressing up so 
 closely to the metropolis. He still depends in the 
 nineteenth century, as in the dim ages before the 
 Pyramids, upon this tiny yellow grain here, rubbed 
 out from the ear of wheat. The clever mechanism 
 of the locomotive which bears him to and fro, 
 week after week and month after month, from 
 home to office and from office home, has not 
 rendered him in the least degree independent of 
 this. 
 
 117
 
 --^ar NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 But it is no wonder that these things are for- 
 gotten in the daily struggle of London. And if the 
 merchant spares an abstracted glance from the 
 morning or evening newspaper out upon the fields 
 from the carriage window, the furrows of the field 
 can have but little meaning. Each looks to him 
 exactly alike. To the farmers and the labourer 
 such and such a furrow marks an acre and has its 
 bearing, but to the passing glance it is not so. 
 The work in the field is so slow ; the passenger by 
 rail sees, as it seems to him, nothing going on ; the 
 corn may sow itself almost for all that is note- 
 worthy in apparent labour. 
 
 Thus it happens that, although the cornfields and 
 the meadows come so closely up to the offices 
 and warehouses of mighty London, there is a line 
 and mark in the minds of men between them; the 
 man of merchandise does not see what the man 
 of the field sees, though both may pass the same 
 acres every morning. It is inevitable that it should 
 be so. It is easy in London to forget that it is 
 midsummer, till, going some day into Covent- 
 garden Market, you see baskets of the cornflower, 
 or blue-bottle as it is called in the country, ticketed 
 " Corinne " and offered for sale. The lovely azure 
 of the flower recalls the scene where it was first 
 gathered long since at the edge of the wheat. 
 
 By the copse here now the teazles lift their spiny 
 _n8
 
 WHE ATFIELDS 
 
 heads high in the hedge, the young nuts are 
 browning, the wild mints flowering on the shores 
 of the ditch, and the reapers are cutting ceaselessly 
 at the ripe corn. The larks have brought their 
 loves to a happy conclusion. Besides them, the 
 wheat in its day has sheltered many other creatures 
 both animals and birds. 
 
 Hares raced about it in the spring, and even in 
 the May sunshine might be seen rambling over the 
 slopes. As it grew higher it hid the leverets and 
 the partridge chicks. Toll has been taken by 
 rook, and sparrow, and pigeon. Enemies, too, 
 have assailed it ; the daring couch invaded it, the 
 bindweed climbed up the stalk, the storm rushed 
 along and beat it down. Yet it triumphed, and 
 to-day the full sheaves lean against each other. 
 
 119
 
 THE CROWS 
 
 N one side of the road immediately 
 after quitting the suburb there is a 
 small cover of furze. The spines 
 are now somewhat browned by the 
 summer heats, and the fern which grows about 
 every bush trembles on the balance of colour be- 
 tween green and yellow. Soon, too, the tall wiry 
 grass will take a warm brown tint, which gradually 
 pales as the autumn passes into winter, and finally 
 bleaches to greyish white. 
 
 Looking into the furze from the footpath, there 
 are purple traces here and there at the edge of the 
 fern where the heath-bells hang. On a furze 
 branch, which projects above the rest, a furze chat 
 perches, with yellow blossom above and beneath 
 him. Rushes mark the margin of small pools and 
 marshy spots, so overhung with brambles and birch 
 branches, and so closely surrounded by gorse, that 
 they would not otherwise be noticed. 
 
 But the thick growth of rushes intimates that 
 water is near, and upon parting the bushes a little
 
 THE CROWS 
 
 may be seen, all that has escaped evaporation in 
 the shade. P'rorn one of these marshy spots I 
 once and once only observed a snipe rise, 
 and after wheeling round return and settle by 
 another. As the wiry grass becomes paler with 
 the fall of the year, the rushes, on the contrary, 
 from green become faintly yellow, and presently 
 brownish. Grey grass and brown rushes, dark 
 furze, and fern almost copper in hue from frost, 
 when lit up by a gleam of winter sunshine, form a 
 pleasant breadth of warm colour in the midst of 
 bare fields. 
 
 After continuous showers in spring, lizards are 
 often found in the adjacent gardens, their dark 
 backs as they crawl over the patches being almost 
 exactly the tint of the moist earth. If touched, 
 the tail is immediately coiled, the body stiffens, and 
 the creature appears dead. They are popularly 
 supposed to come from the furze, which is also 
 believed to shelter adders. 
 
 There is, indeed, scarcely a cover in Surrey and 
 Kent which is not said to have its adders ; the 
 gardeners employed at villas close to the metropolis 
 occasionally raise an alarm, and profess to have 
 seen a viper in the shrubberies, or the ivy, or under 
 an old piece of bast. Since so few can distinguish 
 at a glance between the common snake and the 
 adder it is as well not to press too closely upon any
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 reptile that may chance to be heard rustling in the 
 grass, and to strike tussocks with the walking-stick 
 before sitting down to rest, for the adder is only 
 dangerous when unexpectedly encountered. 
 
 In the roadside ditch by the furze the figwort 
 grows, easily known by its coarse square stem ; and 
 the woody bines, if so they may be called, or stalks 
 of bitter-sweet, remain all the winter standing in 
 the hawthorn hedge. The first frosts, on the 
 other hand, shrivel the bines of white bryony, 
 which part and hang separated, and in the spring a 
 fresh bine pushes up with greyish green leaves, and 
 tendrils feeling for support. It is often observed 
 that the tendrils of this bryony coil both ways, with 
 and against the sun. 
 
 But it must be remembered in looking for this 
 that it is the same tendril which should be ex- 
 amined, and not two different ones. It will then 
 be seen that the tendril, after forming a spiral one 
 way, lengthens out like a tiny green wax taper, and 
 afterwards turns the other. Sometimes it resumes 
 the original turn before reaching a branch to cling 
 to, and may thus be said to have revolved in three 
 directions. The dusty celandine grows under the 
 bushes ; and its light green leaves seem to retain 
 the white dust from the road. Ground ivy creeps 
 everywhere over the banks, and covers the barest 
 spot. In April its flowers, though much concealed
 
 THE CROWS 
 
 by leaves, dot the sides of the ditches with colour, 
 like the purple tint that lurks in the amethyst. 
 
 A small black patch marks the site of one of 
 those gorse fires which are so common in Surrey. 
 This was extinguished before it could spread be- 
 yond a few bushes. The crooked stems remain 
 black as charcoal, too much burnt to recover, and 
 in the centre a young birch, scorched by the flames, 
 stands leafless. This barren birch, bare of foliage 
 and apparently unattractive, is the favourite resort 
 of yellowhammers. Perching on a branch towards 
 evening, a yellowhammer will often sit and sing 
 by the hour together, as if preferring to be clear 
 of leafy sprays. 
 
 The somewhat dingy hue of many trees as the 
 summer begins to wane is caused not only by the 
 fading of the green, but by the appearance of spots 
 upon the leaves, as may be seen on those birches 
 which grow among the furze. But in spring and 
 early summer their fresh light green contrasts with 
 masses of bright yellow gorse bloom. Just before 
 then just as the first leaves are opening the 
 chiff-chaffs come. 
 
 The first spring I had any knowledge of this 
 spot was mild, and had been preceded by mild 
 seasons. The chiff-chaffs arrived all at once, as it 
 seemed, in a bevy, and took possession of every 
 birch about the furze, calling incessantly with 
 123
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 might and main. The willow-wrens were nearly 
 as numerous. All the gorse seemed full of them 
 for a few days. Then by degrees they gradually 
 spread abroad, and dispersed among the hedges. 
 
 But in the following springs nothing of the kind 
 occurred. Chiff-chaff and willow-wren came as 
 usual, but they did not arrive in a crowd at once. 
 This may have been owing to the flight going 
 elsewhere, or possibly the flock were diminished 
 by failure to rear the young broods in so drenching a 
 season as 1879, which would explain the difference 
 observed next spring. There was no scarcity, but 
 there was a lack of the bustle and excitement and 
 flood of song that accompanied their advent two 
 years before. 
 
 Upon a piece of waste land at the corner of the 
 furze a very large cinder and dust heap was made by 
 carting refuse there from the neighbouring suburb. 
 During the sharp and continued frosts of the winter 
 this dust-heap was the resort of almost every species 
 of bird sparrows, starlings, greenfinches, and 
 rooks searching for any stray morsels of food. 
 Some bird-catchers soon noticed this concourse, 
 and spread their nets among the adjacent rushes, 
 but fortunately with little success. 
 
 I say fortunately, not because I fear the extinc- 
 tion of small birds, but because of the miserable 
 fate that awaits the captive. Far better for the 
 124
 
 THE CROWS 
 
 frightened little creature to have its neck at once 
 twisted and to die than to languish in cages hardly 
 large enough for it to turn in behind the dirty 
 panes of the windows in the Seven Dials. 
 
 The happy greenfinch I use the term of fore- 
 thought, for the greenfinch seems one of the very 
 happiest of birds in the hedges accustomed dur- 
 ing all its brief existence to wander in company 
 with friends from bush to bush and tree to tree, 
 must literally pine its heart out. Or it may be 
 streaked with bright paint and passed on some un- 
 wary person for a Java sparrow or a " blood-heart." 
 
 The little boy who dares to take a bird's nest 
 is occasionally fined and severely reproved. The 
 ruffian-like crew who go forth into the pastures 
 and lanes about London, snaring and netting full- 
 grown birds by the score, are permitted to ply their 
 trade unchecked. I mean to say that there is no 
 comparison between the two things. An egg has 
 not yet advanced to consciousness or feeling : the 
 old birds, if their nest is taken, frequently build 
 another. The lad has to hunt for the nest, to 
 climb for it or push through thorns, and may be 
 pricked by brambles and stung by nettles. In a 
 degree there is something to him approaching to 
 sport in nesting. 
 
 But these bird-catchers simply stand by the ditch 
 with their hands in their pockets sucking a stale 
 125
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 pipe. They would rather lounge there in the bit- 
 terest northeast wind that ever blew than do a 
 single hour's honest work. Blackguard is written 
 in their faces. The poacher needs some courage, 
 at least ; he knows a penalty awaits detection. 
 These fellows have no idea of sport, no courage, 
 and no skill, for their tricks are simplicity itself, nor 
 have they the pretence of utility, for they do not 
 catch birds for the good of the farmers or the 
 market gardeners, but merely that they may booze 
 without working for the means. 
 
 Pity it is that any one can be found to purchase 
 the product of their brutality. No one would do 
 so could they but realise the difference to the cap- 
 tive upon which they are lavishing their mistaken 
 love, between the cage, the alternately hot and 
 cold room (as the fire goes out at night), the close 
 atmosphere and fumes that lurk near the ceiling, 
 and the open air and freedom to which it was born. 
 
 The rooks only came to the dust-heap in hard 
 weather, and ceased to visit it so soon as the ground 
 relaxed and the ploughs began to move. But a 
 couple of crows looked over the refuse once during 
 the day for months till men came to sift the cinders. 
 These crows are permanent residents. Their ren- 
 dezvous is a copse, only separated from the furze 
 by the highway. 
 
 They are always somewhere near, now in the 
 126
 
 THE CROWS 
 
 ploughed fields, now in the furze, and during the 
 severe frosts of last winter in the road itself, so 
 sharply driven by hunger as to rise very unwillingly 
 on the approach of passengers. A meadow opposite 
 the copse is one of their favourite resorts. There are 
 anthills, rushes, and other indications of not too rich 
 a soil in this meadow, and in places the prickly rest- 
 harrow grows among the grass, bearing its pink 
 flower in summer. Perhaps the coarse grass and 
 poor soil are productive of grubs and insects, for not 
 only the crows, but the rooks, continually visit it. 
 
 One spring, hearing a loud chattering in the 
 copse, and recognising the alarm notes of the 
 missel-thrush, I cautiously crept up the hedge, and 
 presently found three crows up in a birch tree, 
 just above where the thrushes were calling. The 
 third crow probably a descendant of the other 
 two had joined in a raid upon the missel- 
 thrushes' brood. Both defenders and assailants 
 were in a high state of excitement ; the thrushes 
 screeching, and the crows, in a row one above the 
 other on a branch, moving up and down it in a 
 restless manner. I fear they had succeeded in 
 their purpose, for no trace of the young birds was 
 visible. 
 
 The nest of the missel-thrush is so frequently 
 singled out for attack by crows that it would seem 
 the young birds must possess a peculiar and at-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 tractive flavour ; or is it because they are large ? 
 There are more crows round London than in a whole 
 county, where the absence of manufactures and 
 the rural quiet would seem favourable to bird life. 
 The reason, of course, is that in the country the 
 crows frequenting woods are shot and kept down 
 as much as possible by gamekeepers. 
 
 In the immediate environs of London keepers 
 are not about, and even a little further away the 
 land is held by many small owners, and game 
 preservation is not thought of. The numerous 
 pieces of waste ground, " to let on building lease," 
 the excavated ground, where rubbish can be thrown, 
 the refuse and ash heaps these are the haunts 
 of the London crow. Suburban railway stations 
 are often haunted by crows, which perch on the 
 telegraph wires close to the back windows of the 
 houses that abut upon the metals. There they sit, 
 grave and undisturbed by the noisy engines which 
 pass beneath them. 
 
 In the shrubberies around villa gardens, or in the 
 hedges of the small paddocks attached, thrushes 
 and other birds sometimes build their nests. The 
 children of the household watch the progress of 
 the nest, and note the appearance of the eggs with 
 delight. Their friends of larger growth visit the 
 spot occasionally, and orders are given that the 
 birds shall be protected, the gardeners become
 
 THE CROWS 
 
 gamekeepers, and the lawn or shrubbery is guarded 
 like a preserve. Everything goes well till the 
 young birds are almost ready to quit the nest, 
 when one morning they are missing. 
 
 The theft is, perhaps, attributed to the boys of 
 the neighbourhood, but unjustly, unless plain traces 
 of entry are visible. It is either cats or crows. 
 The cats cannot be kept out, not even by a dog, 
 for they watch till his attention is otherwise en- 
 gaged. Food is not so much the object as the 
 pleasure of destruction, for cats will kill and yet 
 not eat their victim. The crow may not have 
 been seen in the garden, and it may be said that 
 he could not have known of the nest without 
 looking round the place. But the crow is a keen 
 observer, and has not the least necessity to search 
 for the nest. 
 
 He merely keeps a watch on the motions of the 
 old birds of the place, and knows at once by their 
 flight being so continually directed to one spot that 
 there their treasure lies. He and his companion 
 may come very early in the morning summer 
 mornings are bright as noonday long before the 
 earliest gardener is abroad or they may come in 
 the dusk of the evening. Crows are not so par- 
 ticular in retiring regularly to roost as the rook. 
 
 The furze and copse frequented by the pair 
 which I found attacking the missel-thrushes are 
 9 129
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON SEES 
 
 situate at the edge of extensive arable fields. In 
 these, though not overlooked by gamekeepers, there 
 is a good deal of game which is preserved by the 
 tenants of the farms. After the bitter winter and 
 wet summer of 1879, there was a complaint, too 
 well founded, that the partridges were diminished 
 in numbers. But the crows were not. There 
 were as many of them as ever. When there were 
 many partridges, the loss of a few eggs or chicks 
 was not so important. But when there are but 
 few, every egg or chick destroyed retards the re- 
 stocking of the fields. 
 
 The existence of so many crows all round 
 London is, in short, a constant check upon the 
 game. The belt of land immediately outside the 
 houses, and lying between them and the plantations 
 which are preserved, is the crow's reserve, where 
 he hunts in security. He is so safe that he has 
 almost lost all dread of man, and his motions can 
 be observed without trouble. The ash-heap at 
 tho corner of the furze, besides the crows, be- 
 came the resort of rats, whose holes were so thick 
 in the bank as to form quite a bury. After the 
 rats came the weasels. 
 
 When the rats were most numerous, before the 
 
 ash-heap was sifted, there was a weasel there nearly 
 
 every day, slipping in and out of their holes. In 
 
 the depth of the country an observer might walk 
 
 130
 
 THE CROWS 
 
 some considerable distance and wait about for hours 
 without seeing a weasel ; but here by the side of a 
 busy suburban road there were plenty. Professional 
 rat-catchers ferreted the bank once or twice, and 
 rilled their iron cages. With these the dogs kept 
 by dog-fanciers in the adjacent suburb were prac- 
 tised in destroying vermin at so much a rat. 
 Though ferreted and hunted down by the weasels, 
 the rats were not rooted out, but remained till the 
 ash-heap was sifted and no fresh refuse deposited. 
 
 In one place among the gorse, the willows, 
 birches, and thorn bushes make a thick covert, 
 which is adjacent to several of the hidden pools 
 previously mentioned. Here a brook-sparrow or 
 sedge-reedling takes up his quarters in the spring, 
 and chatters on, day and night, through the sum- 
 mer. Visitors to the opera and playgoers returning 
 in the first hours of the morning from Covent- 
 garden or Drury-lane can scarcely fail to hear 
 him if they pause but one moment to listen to the 
 nightingale. 
 
 The latter sings in one bush and the sedge- 
 reedling in another close together. The moment 
 the nightingale ceases the sedge-reedling lifts his 
 voice, which is a very penetrating one, and in the 
 silence of the night may be heard some distance. 
 This bird is credited with imitating the notes 
 of several others, and has been called the English
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 mocking-bird, but I strongly doubt the imitation. 
 Nor, indeed, could I ever trace the supposed resem- 
 blance of its song to that of other birds. 
 
 It is a song of a particularly monotonous char- 
 acter. It is distinguishable immediately, and if the 
 bird happens to nest near a house, is often disliked 
 on account of the loud iteration. Perhaps those 
 who first gave it the name of the mocking-bird 
 were not well acquainted with the notes of the 
 birds which they fancied it to mock. To mistake 
 it for the nightingale, some of whose tones it is 
 said to imitate, would be like confounding the clash 
 of cymbals with the soft sound of a flute. 
 
 Linnets come to the furze, and occasionally 
 magpies, but these latter only in winter. Then, 
 too, golden-crested wrens may be seen searching 
 in the furze bushes and creeping round and about 
 the thorns and brambles. There is a roadside pond 
 close to the furze, the delight of horses and cattle 
 driven along the dusty way in summer. Along 
 the shelving sandy shore the wagtails run, both 
 the pied and the yellow, but few birds come here 
 to wash ; for that purpose they prefer a running 
 stream if it be accessible. 
 
 Upon the willow trees which border it, a reed 
 sparrow or black-headed bunting may often be ob- 
 served. One bright March morning, as I came 
 up the road, just as the surface of the pond became 
 132
 
 THE CROWS 
 
 visible it presented a scene of dazzling beauty. 
 At that distance only the tops of the ripples were 
 seen, reflecting the light at a very low angle. 
 The result was' that the eye saw nothing of the 
 water or the wavelet, but caught only the brilliant 
 glow. Instead of a succession of sparkles there 
 seemed to be a golden liquid floating on the surface 
 as oil floats a golden liquid two or three inches 
 thick, which flowed before the wind. 
 
 Besides this surface of molten gold there was a 
 sheen and flicker above it, as if a spray or. vapour, 
 carried along, or the crests of the wavelets blown 
 over, was also of gold. But the metal conveys no 
 idea of the glowing, lustrous light which filled the 
 hollow by the dusty road. It was visible from 
 one spot only, a few steps altering the angle 
 lessened the glory, and as the pond itself came into 
 view there was nothing but a ripple on water 
 somewhat thick with suspended sand. Thus things 
 change their appearance as they are looked at in 
 different ways. 
 
 A patch of water crowsfoot grows on the farthest 
 side of the pond, and in early summer sends up 
 lovely white flowers. 
 
 133
 
 HEATHLANDS 
 
 ANDOWN has become one of the most 
 familiar places near the metropolis, but the 
 fir woods at the back of it are perhaps 
 scarcely known to exist by many who 
 visit the fashionable knoll. Though near at hand, 
 they are shut off by the village of Esher ; but a 
 mile or two westwards, down the Portsmouth 
 highway, there is a cartroad on the left hand which 
 enters at once into the woods. 
 
 The fine white sand of the soil is only covered 
 by a thin coating of earth formed from the falling 
 leaves and decayed branches, so thin that it may 
 sometimes be rubbed away by the foot or even the 
 fingers. Grass and moss grow sparingly in the 
 track, but wherever wheels or footsteps have passed 
 at all frequently the sand is exposed in white streaks 
 under the shadowy firs. In grass small objects 
 often escape observation, but on such a bare surface 
 everything becomes visible. Coming to one of 
 these places on a summer day, I saw a stream of 
 insects crossing and recrossing, from the fern upon 
 one side to the fern upon the other. 
 _i 34 _
 
 HEATHLANDS 
 
 They were ants, but of a very much larger 
 species than the little red and black " emmets " 
 which exist in the meadows. These horse ants 
 were not much less than half an inch in length, 
 with a round spot at each end like beads, or the 
 black top of long pins. The length of their legs 
 enabled them to move much quicker, and they 
 raced to and fro over the path with great rapidity. 
 The space covered by the stream was a foot or 
 more broad, all of which was crowded and darkened 
 by them, and as there was no cessation in the flow 
 of this multitude, their numbers must have been 
 immense. 
 
 Standing a short way back, so as not to interfere 
 with their proceedings, I saw two of these insects 
 seize hold of a twig, one at each end. The twig, 
 which was dead and dry, and had dropped from a 
 fir, was not quite so long as a match, but rather 
 thicker. They lifted this stick with ease, and 
 carried it along, exactly as labourers carry a plank. 
 A few short blades of grass being in the way they 
 ran up against them, but stepped aside, and so got 
 by. A cart which had passed a long while since 
 had forced down the sand by the weight of its 
 load, leaving a ridge about three inches high, the 
 side being perpendicular. 
 
 Till they came to this cliff the two ants moved 
 parallel, but here one of them went first, and 
 135
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 climbed up the bank with its end of the stick, 
 after which the second followed and brought up 
 the other. An inch or two further, on the level 
 ground, the second ant left hold and went away, 
 and the first laboured on with the twig and dragged 
 it unaided across the rest of the path. Though 
 many other ants stayed and looked at the twig a 
 moment, none of them now offered assistance, as 
 if the chief obstacle had been surmounted. 
 
 Several other ants passed, each carrying the 
 slender needles which fall from firs, and which 
 seemed nothing in their powerful grasp. These 
 burdens of wood all went in one direction, to the 
 right of the path. 
 
 I took a step there, but stayed to watch two 
 more ants, who had got a long scarlet fly between 
 them, one holding it by the head and the other by 
 the tail. They were hurrying their prey over the 
 dead leaves and decayed sticks which strewed the 
 ground, and dragging it mercilessly through moss 
 and grass. I put the tip of my stick on the victim, 
 but instead of abandoning it they tugged and pulled 
 desperately, as if they would have torn it to pieces 
 rather than have yielded. So soon as I released it 
 away they went through the fragments of branches, 
 rushing the quicker for the delay. 
 
 A little further there was a spot where the 
 ground for a yard or two was covered with small 
 -136-
 
 HEATHLANDS 
 
 dead brown leaves, last year's, apparently of birch, 
 for some young birch saplings grew close by. One 
 of these leaves suddenly rose up and began to move 
 of itself, as it seemed ; an ant had seized it, and 
 holding it by the edge travelled on, so that as the 
 insect was partly hidden under it, the leaf appeared 
 to move alone, now over sticks and now under 
 them. It reminded me of the sight which seemed 
 so wonderful to the early navigators when they 
 came to a country where, as they first thought, the 
 leaves were alive and walked about. 
 
 The ant with the leaf went towards a large 
 heap of rubbish under the sapling birches. While 
 watching the innumerable multitude of these in- 
 sects, whose road here crossed these dead dry 
 leaves, I became conscious of a rustling sound, 
 which at first I attributed to the wind, but seeing 
 that the fern was still and that the green leaves of 
 a Spanish chestnut opposite did not move, I began 
 to realise that this creeping, rustling noise, distinctly 
 audible, was not caused by any wind, but by the 
 thousands upon thousands of insects passing over 
 the dead leaves and among the grass. Stooping 
 down to listen better, there could be no doubt of 
 it : it was the tramp of this immense army. 
 
 The majority still moved in one direction, and 
 I found it led to the heap of rubbish over which 
 they swarmed. This heap was exactly what might 
 137
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 have been swept together by half a dozen men 
 using long gardeners' brooms, and industriously 
 clearing the ground under the firs of the fragments 
 which had fallen from them. It appeared to be 
 entirely composed of small twigs, fir-needles, dead 
 leaves, and similar things. The highest part rose 
 about level with my chest say, between four 
 and five feet the heap was irregularly circular, 
 and not less than three or four yards across, with 
 sides gradually sloping. In the midst stood the 
 sapling birches, their stumps buried in it, the rub- 
 bish having been piled up around them. 
 
 This heap was, in fact, the enormous nest or 
 hill of a colony of horse ants. The whole of it 
 had been gathered together, leaf by leaf, and twig by 
 twig, just as I had seen the two insects carrying the 
 little stick, and the third the brown leaf above itself. 
 It really seemed some way round the outer circum- 
 ference of the nest, and while walking round it was 
 necessary to keep brushing off the ants which 
 dropped on the shoulder from the branches of the 
 birches. For they were everywhere j every inch 
 of ground, every bough was covered with them. 
 Even standing near it was needful to kick the feet 
 continually against the black stump of a fir which 
 had been felled to jar them off, and this again 
 brought still more, attracted by the vibration of the 
 ground. 
 
 -138-
 
 HEATHLANDS 
 
 The highest part of the mound was in the shape 
 of a dome, a dome whitened by layers of fir-needles, 
 which was apparently the most recent part and 
 the centre of this year's operations. The mass of 
 the heap, though closely compacted, was fibrous, 
 and a stick could be easily thrust into it, exposing 
 the eggs. No sooner was such an opening made, 
 and the stick withdrawn from the gap, than the 
 ants swarmed into it, falling headlong over upon 
 each other, and filling the bottom with their strug- 
 gling bodies. Upon leaving the spot, to follow the 
 footpath, I stamped my feet to shake down any 
 stray insects, and then took off my coat and gave 
 it a thorough shaking. 
 
 Immense ant-hills are often depicted in the illus- 
 trations to tropical travels, but this great pile, 
 which certainly contained more than a cart-load, was 
 within a few miles of Hyde Park-corner. From 
 nests like this large quantities of eggs are obtained 
 for feeding the partridges, hatched from the eggs 
 collected by mowers and purchased by keepers. 
 Part of the nest being laid bare with any tool, the 
 eggs are hastily taken out in masses and thrown 
 into a sack. Some think that ant's eggs, although so 
 favourite a food, are not always the most advanta- 
 geous. Birds which have been fed freely on these 
 eggs become fastidious and do not care for much 
 else, so that if the supply fails they fall off in con- 
 139
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 dition. If there are sufficient eggs to last the 
 season, then a few every day produce the best 
 effect ; if not, they had better not have a feast 
 followed by a fast. 
 
 The sense of having a roof overhead is felt in 
 walking through a forest of firs like this, because 
 the branches are all rt the top of the trunks. The 
 stems rise to the same height, and then the dark 
 foliage spreading forms a roof. As they are not 
 very near together, the eye can see some distance 
 between them, and as there is hardly any under- 
 wood or bushes nothing higher than the fern 
 there is a space open and unfilled between the 
 ground and the roof so far above. 
 
 A vast hollow extends on every side, nor is it 
 broken by the flitting of birds or the rush of 
 animals among the fern. The sudden note of a 
 wood-pigeon, hoarse and deep, calling from a fir 
 top, sounds still louder and ruder in the spacious 
 echoing vault beneath, so loud as at first to re- 
 semble the baying of a hound. The call ceases, 
 and another of these watch-dogs of the woods 
 takes it up afar off. 
 
 There is an opening in the monotonous firs by 
 some rising ground, and the sunshine falls on 
 young Spanish chestnuts and underwood, through 
 which is a little used foot-path. If firs are planted 
 in wildernesses with the view of ultimately cover- 
 140
 
 HE ATHLANDS 
 
 ing the barren soil with fertile earth, formed by 
 the decay of vegetable matter, it is, perhaps, open 
 to discussion as to whether the best tree has been 
 chosen. Under firs the ground is generally dry, 
 too dry for decay ; the resinous emanations rather 
 tend to preserve anything that falls there. 
 
 No underwood or plants and little grass grows 
 under them ; these, therefore, which make soil 
 quickest, are prevented from improving the earth. 
 The needles of firs lie for months without decay ; 
 they are, too, very slender, and there are few 
 branches to fall. Beneath any other trees (such as 
 the edible chestnut and birch, which seem to grow 
 here), there are the autumn leaves to decay, the 
 twigs and branches which fall off, while grasses 
 and plants flourish, and brambles and underwood 
 grow freely. The earth remains moist, and all 
 these soon cause an increase of the fertility ; so that, 
 unless fir tree timber is very valuable, and I never 
 heard that it was, I would rather plant a waste 
 with any other tree or brushwood, provided, of 
 course, it would grow. i 
 
 It is a pleasure to explore this little dell by the 
 side of the rising ground, creeping under green 
 boughs which brush the shoulders, after the empty 
 space of the firs. Within there is a pond, where 
 lank horsetails grow thickly, rising from the water. 
 Returning to the rising ground, I pursue the path, 
 141
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 still under the shadow of the firs. There is no 
 end to them the vast monotony has no visible 
 limit. The brake fern it is early in July has 
 not yet reached its full height, but what that will be 
 is shown by these thick stems which rise smooth 
 and straight, fully three feet to the first frond. 
 
 A woodpecker calls, and the gleam of his green 
 and gold is visible for a moment as he hastens 
 away the first bird, except the wood-pigeons, 
 seen for an hour, yet there are miles of firs around. 
 After a time the ground rises again, the tall firs 
 cease, but are succeeded by younger firs. These 
 are more pleasant because they do not exclude the 
 sky. The sunshine lights the path, and the 
 summer blue extends above. The fern, too, 
 ceases, and the white sand is now concealed by 
 heath, with here and there a dash of colour. 
 Furze chats call, and flit to and fro ; the hum of 
 bees is heard once more there was not one under 
 the vacant shadow ; and swallows pass overhead. 
 
 At last emerging from the firs the open slope is 
 covered with heath only, but heath growing so 
 thickly that even the narrow footpaths are hidden 
 by the overhanging bushes of it. Some small 
 bushes of furze here and there are dead and dry, 
 but every prickly point appears perfect ; when 
 struck with the walking-stick the bush crumbles to 
 pieces. Beneath and amid the heath what seems a 
 142
 
 HEATHLANDS 
 
 species of lichen grows so profusely as to give a 
 grey undertone. In places it supplants the heath, 
 the ground is concealed by lichen only, which 
 crunches under the foot like hoar-frost. Each 
 piece is branched not unlike a stag's antlers ; gather 
 a handful and it crumbles to pieces in the fingers, 
 dry and brittle. 
 
 A quarry for sand has been dug down some eight 
 or ten feet, so that standing in it nothing else is 
 visible. This steep scarp shows the strata, yellow 
 sand streaked with thin brown layers ; at the top it 
 is fringed with heath in full flower, bunches of 
 purple bloom overhanging the edge, and behind 
 this the azure of the sky. 
 
 Here, where the ground slopes gradually, it is 
 entirely covered with the purple bells ; a sheen and 
 gleam of purple light plays upon it. A fragrance 
 of sweet honey floats up from the flowers where 
 grey hive-bees are busy. Ascending still higher 
 and crossing the summit, the ground almost sud- 
 denly falls away in a steep descent, and the entire 
 hillside, seen at a glance, is covered with heath, 
 and heath alone. A bunch at the very edge offers 
 a purple cushion fit for a king ; resting here a 
 delicious summer breeze, passing over miles and 
 miles of fields and woods yonder, comes straight 
 from the distant hills. 
 
 Along those hills the lines of darker green are 
 143
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 woods ; there are woods to the south, and west, and 
 east, heath around, and in the rear the gaze travels 
 over the tops of the endless firs. But south- 
 wards is sweetest ; below, beyond the verge of 
 the heath, the corn begins, and waves in the wind. 
 It is the breeze that makes the summer day so 
 lovely. 
 
 The eggs of the nighthawk are sometimes found 
 at this season near by. They are laid on the 
 ground, on the barest spots, where there is no 
 herbage. At dusk, the nighthawk wheels with a 
 soft yet quick flight over the ferns and about the 
 trees. Along the hedges bounding the heath 
 butcher-birds watch for their prey sometimes on 
 the furze, sometimes on a branch of ash. Wood- 
 sage grows plentifully on the banks by the roads ; 
 it is a plant somewhat resembling a lowly nettle; 
 the leaves have a hop-like scent, and so bitter and 
 strong is the odour that immediately after smelling 
 them the mouth for a moment feels dry with a 
 sense of thirst. 
 
 The angle of a field by the woods on the eastern 
 side of the heath, the entire corner, is blue in July 
 with viper's bugloss. The stalks rise some two 
 feet, and are covered with minute brown dots ; 
 they are rough, and the lower part prickly. Blue 
 flowers in pairs, with pink stamens and pink buds, 
 bloom thickly round the top, and, as each plant has 
 H4
 
 HEATHLANDS 
 
 several stalks, it is very conspicuous where the 
 grass is short. 
 
 There are hundreds of these flowers in this 
 corner, and along the edge of the wood ; a quarter 
 of an acre is blue with them. So indifferent are 
 people to such things that men working in the 
 same field, and who had pulled up the plant and 
 described its root as like that of a dock, did not 
 know its name. Yet they admired it. " It is an 
 innocent-looking flower," they said, that is, pleas- 
 ant to look at. 
 
 By the roadside I thought I saw something red 
 under the long grass of the mound, and, parting 
 the blades, found half a dozen wild strawberries. 
 They were larger than usual, and just ripe. The 
 wild strawberry is a little more acid than the culti- 
 vated, and has more flavour than would be supposed 
 from its small size. 
 
 Descending to the lower ground again, the brake 
 fills every space between the trees ; it is so thick 
 and tall that the cows which wander about, grazing 
 at their will, each wear a bell slung round the 
 neck, that their position may be discovered by 
 sound. Otherwise it would be difficult to find 
 them in the fern or among the firs. There are 
 many swampy places here, which should be avoided 
 by those who dislike snakes. The common harm- 
 less snakes are numerous in this part, and they 
 145
 
 ^ac NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 always keep near water. They often glide into a 
 mole's " angle," or hole, if found in the open. 
 
 Adders are known to exist in the woods round 
 about, but are never, or very seldom, seen upon 
 the heath itself. In the woods of the neighbour- 
 hood they are not uncommon, and are still some- 
 times killed for the sake of the oil. The belief in 
 the virtue of adder's fat, or oil, is still firm ; among 
 other uses it is considered the best thing for deaf- 
 ness, not, of course, resulting from organic defect. 
 For deafness, the oil should be applied by pouring 
 a small quantity into the ear, exactly in the same 
 manner as in the play the poison is poured into the 
 ear of the sleeping king. Cures are declared to be 
 effected by this oil at the present day. 
 
 It is procured by skinning the adder, taking the 
 fat, and boiling it ; the result is a clear oil, which 
 never thickens in the coldest weather. One of 
 these reptiles on being killed and cut open was 
 found to contain the body of a full-grown toad. 
 The old belief that the young of the viper enters 
 its mouth for refuge still lingers. The existence 
 of adders in the woods here seems so undoubted 
 that strangers should be a little careful if they leave 
 the track. Viper's bugloss, which grows so freely 
 by the heath, was so called because anciently it was 
 thought to yield an antidote to the adder's venom. 
 
 -146-
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 iHERE is a slight but perceptible colour 
 in the atmosphere of summer. It is 
 not visible close at hand, nor always 
 where the light falls strongest, and if 
 looked at too long it sometimes fades away. But 
 over gorse and heath, in the warm hollows of 
 wheatfields, and round about the rising ground 
 there is something more than air alone. It is not 
 mist, nor the hazy vapour of autumn, nor the blue 
 tints that come over distant hills and woods. 
 
 As there is a bloom upon the peach and grape, 
 so this is the bloom of summer. The air is ripe 
 and rich, full of the emanations, the perfume, from 
 corn and flower and leafy tree. In strictness the 
 term will not, of course, be accurate, yet by what 
 other word can this appearance in the atmosphere 
 be described but as a bloom ? Upon a still and 
 sunlit summer afternoon it may be seen over the 
 osier-covered islets in the Thames immediately 
 above Teddington Lock. 
 
 It hovers over the level cornfields that stretch 
 towards Richmond, and along the ridge of the 
 147
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 wooded hills that bound them. The bank by the 
 towing-path is steep and shadowless, being bare of 
 trees or hedge ; but the grass is pleasant to rest on, 
 and heat is always more supportable near flowing 
 water. In places the friable earth has crumbled 
 away, and there, where the soil and the stones 
 are exposed, the stonecrop flourishes. A narrow 
 footpath on the summit, raised high above the 
 water, skirts the corn, and is overhung with grass 
 heavily laden by its own seed. 
 
 Sometimes in early June the bright trifolium, 
 drooping with its weight of flower, brushes against 
 the passer-by acre after acre of purple. Oc- 
 casionally the odour of beans in blossom floats out 
 over the river. Again, above the green wheat 
 the larks rise, singing as they soar ; or later on 
 the butterflies wander over the yellow ears. Or, 
 as the law of rotation dictates, the barley whitens 
 under the sun. Still, whether in the dry day, or 
 under the dewy moonlight, the plain stretching 
 from the water to the hills is never without per- 
 fume, colour, or song. 
 
 There stood, one summer not long since, in the 
 corner of a barley field close to the Lock, within a 
 stone's throw, perfect shrubs of mallow, rising to 
 the shoulder, thick as a walking-stick, and hung 
 with flower. Poppies filled every interstice be- 
 tween the barley stalks, their scarlet petals turned 
 -148-
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 back in very languor of exuberant colour, as the 
 awns, drooping over, caressed them. Poppies, 
 again, in the same fields formed a scarlet ground 
 from which the golden wheat sprang up, and 
 among it here and there shone the large blue rays 
 of wild succory. 
 
 The paths across the corn having no hedges, the 
 wayfarer really walks among the wheat, and can 
 pluck with either hand. The ears rise above the 
 heads of children, who shout with joy as they rush 
 along as though to the arms of their mother. 
 
 Beneath the towing-path, at the roots of the 
 willow bushes, which the tow-ropes, so often 
 drawn over them, have kept low, the water-docks 
 lift their thick stems and giant leaves. Bunches 
 of rough-leaved comfrey grow down to the water's 
 edge indeed, the coarse stems sometimes bear 
 signs of having been partially under water when a 
 freshet followed a storm. The flowers are not so 
 perfectly bell-shaped as those of some plants, but 
 are rather tubular. They appear in April, though 
 then green, and may be found all the summer 
 months. Where the comfrey grows thickly the 
 white bells give some colour to the green of the 
 bank, and would give more were they not so often 
 overshadowed by the leaves. 
 
 Water betony, or persicaria, lifts its pink spikes 
 everywhere, tiny florets close together round the 
 149
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 stem at the top ; the leaves are willow-shaped, and 
 there is scarcely a hollow or break in the bank 
 where the earth has fallen which is not clothed 
 with them. A mile or two up the river the tansy 
 is plentiful, bearing golden buttons, which, like 
 every fragment of the feathery foliage, if pressed 
 in the fingers, impart to them a peculiar scent. 
 There, too, the yellow loose-strife pushes up its 
 tall slender stalks to the top of the low willow 
 bushes, that the bright yellow flowers may emerge 
 from the shadow. 
 
 The river itself, the broad stream, ample and 
 full, exhibits all its glory in this reach ; from One 
 Tree to the Lock it is nearly straight, and the 
 river itself is everything. Between wooded hills, 
 or where divided by numerous islets, or where 
 trees and hedges enclose the view, the stream is 
 but part of the scene. Here it is all. The long 
 raised bank without a hedge or fence, with the 
 cornfields on its level, simply guides the eye to the 
 water. Those who are afloat upon it insensibly 
 yield to the influence of the open expanse. 
 
 The boat whose varnished sides but now slipped 
 so gently that the cutwater did not even raise a 
 wavelet, and every black rivet head was visible as 
 a line of dots, begins to forge ahead. The oars 
 are dipped farther back, and as the blade feels the 
 water holding it in the hollow, the lissom wood 
 150
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 bends to its work. Before the cutwater a wave 
 rises, and, repulsed, rushes outwards. At each 
 stroke, as the weight swings towards the prow, 
 there is just the least faint depression at its stem as 
 the boat travels. Whirlpool after whirlpool glides 
 from the oars, revolving to the rear with a three- 
 fold motion, round and round, backwards and 
 outwards. The crew impart their own life to 
 their boat; the animate and inanimate become as 
 one, the boat is no longer wooden but alive. 
 
 If there be a breeze a fleet of white sails comes 
 round the willow-hidden bend. But the Thames 
 yachtsmen have no slight difficulties to contend 
 with. The capricious wind is nowhere so thor- 
 oughly capricious as on the upper river. Along 
 one mile there may be a spanking breeze, the very 
 next is calm, or with a fitful puff coming over a 
 high hedge, which flutters his pennant, but does 
 not so much as shake the sail. Even in the same 
 mile the wind may take the water on one side, and 
 scarcely move a leaf on the other. But the current 
 is always there, and the vessel is certain to drift. 
 
 When at last a good opportunity is obtained, 
 just as the boat heels over, and the rushing bubbles 
 at the prow resound, she must be put about, and 
 the flapping foresail almost brushes the osiers. If 
 she does not come round if the movement has 
 been put off a moment too long the keel grates, 
 151
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 and she is aground immediately. It is nothing but 
 tacking, tacking, tacking a kind of stitching the 
 stream. 
 
 Nor can one always choose the best day for the 
 purpose ; the exigencies of business, perhaps, will 
 not permit, and when free, the wind, which has 
 been scattering tiles and chimney-pots and snapping 
 telegraph wires in the City all the week, drops on 
 the Saturday to nothing. He must possess invin- 
 cible patience, and at the same time be always 
 ready to advance his vessel even a foot, and his 
 judgment must never fail him at the critical time. 
 
 But the few brief hours when the circumstances 
 are favourable compensate for delays and monoto- 
 nous calms j the vessel, built on well-judged lines, 
 answers her helm and responds to his will with in- 
 stant obedience, and that sense of command is per- 
 haps the great charm of sailing. There are others 
 who find a pleasure in the yacht. When at her 
 moorings on a sunny morning she is sometimes 
 boarded by laughing girls, who have put off from 
 the lawn, and who proceed in the most sailor-like 
 fashion to overhaul the rigging and see that every- 
 thing is ship-shape. No position shows off a 
 well-poised figure to such advantage as when, in a 
 close-fitting costume, a lady's arms are held high 
 above her head to haul at a rope. 
 
 So the river life flows by ; skiffs, and four oars, 
 152
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 canoes, solitary scullers in outriggers, once now 
 and then a swift eight, launches, a bargee in a tub- 
 like dingy standing up and pushing his sculls in- 
 stead of pulling ; gentlemen, with their shoulders in 
 a halter, hauling like horses and towing fair freights 
 against the current ; and punts poled across to 
 shady nooks. The splashing of oars, the staccato 
 sound as a blade feathered too low meets the 
 wavelets, merry voices sometimes a song, and 
 always a low undertone, which, as the wind accel- 
 erates it, rises to a roar. It is the last leap of the 
 river to the sea ; the last weir to whose piles 
 the tide rises. On the bank of the weir where 
 the tide must moisten their roots grow dense 
 masses of willow-herb, almost as high as the 
 shoulder, with trumpet-shaped pink flowers. 
 
 Let us go back again to the bank by the corn- 
 fields, with the glorious open stretch of stream. 
 In the evening, the rosy or golden hues of the sun- 
 set will be reflected on the surface from the clouds ; 
 then the bats wheel to and fro, and once now and 
 then a nighthawk will throw himself through the 
 air with uncertain flight, his motions scarcely to 
 be followed, as darkness falls. Am I mistaken, or 
 are kingfishers less numerous than they were only 
 a few seasons since ? Then I saw them, now I 
 do not. Long-continued and severe frosts are very 
 fatal to these birds ; they die on the perch. 
 J53
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON JBS 
 
 And may I say a word for the Thames otter? 
 The list of really wild animals now existing in the 
 home counties is so very, very short, that the ex- 
 termination of one of them seems a serious loss. 
 Every effort is made to exterminate the otter. No 
 sooner does one venture down the river than traps, 
 gins, nets, dogs, prongs, brickbats, every species 
 of missile, all the artillery of vulgar destruction, 
 are brought against its devoted head. Unless my 
 memory serves me wrong, one of these creatures 
 caught in a trap not long since was hammered to 
 death with a shovel or a pitchfork. 
 
 Now the river fox is, we know, extremely de- 
 structive to fish, but what are a basketful of " bait " 
 compared to one otter ? The latter will certainly 
 never be numerous, for the moment they become 
 so, otter-hounds would be employed, and then we 
 should see some sport. Londoners, I think, 
 scarcely recognise the fact that the otter is one of 
 the last links between the wild past of ancient 
 England and the present days of high civilisation. 
 
 The beaver is gone, but the otter remains, and 
 comes so near the mighty City as just the other 
 side of the well-known Lock, the portal through 
 which a thousand boats at holiday time convey 
 men and women to breathe pure air. The por- 
 poise, and even the seal it is said, ventures to 
 Westminster sometimes; the otter to Kingston. 
 154
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 Thus, the sea sends its denizens past the vast 
 multitude that surges over the City bridges, and 
 the last link with the olden time, the otter, still 
 endeavours to live near. 
 
 Perhaps the river is sweetest to look on in spring- 
 time or early summer. Seen from a distance the 
 water seems at first sight, when the broad stream 
 fills the vision as a whole, to flow with smooth, 
 even current between meadow and cornfield. But, 
 coming to the brink, that silvery surface now ap- 
 pears exquisitely chased with ever-changing lines. 
 The light airs, wandering to and fro where high 
 banks exclude the direct influence of the breeze, 
 flutter the ripples hither and thither, so that, instead 
 of rolling upon one lee shore, they meet and expend 
 their little force upon each other. A continuous 
 rising and falling, without a line of direction, thus 
 breaks up the light, not with sparkle or glitter, but 
 with endless silvery facets. 
 
 There is no pattern. The apparently inter- 
 tangled tracing on a work of art presently resolves 
 itself into a design, which once seen is always the 
 same. These wavelets form no design ; watch the 
 sheeny maze as long as one will, the eye cannot 
 get at the clue, and so unwind the pattern. 
 
 Each seems for a second exactly like its fellow, 
 but varies while you say " These two are the 
 same," and the white reflected light upon the wide 
 155
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 stream is now strongest here, and instantly after- 
 wards flickers yonder. 
 
 Where a gap in the willows admits a current of 
 air a ripple starts to rush straight across, but is met 
 by another returning, which has been repulsed from 
 the blufF bow of a moored boat, and the two cross 
 and run through each other. As the level of the 
 stream now slightly rises and again falls, the jagged 
 top of a large stone by the shore alternately appears 
 above, or is covered by the surface. The water 
 as it retires leaves for a moment a hollow in itself 
 by the stone, and then swings back to fill the 
 vacuum. 
 
 Long roots of willows and projecting branches 
 cast their shadow upon the shallow sandy bottom ; 
 the shadow of a branch can be traced slanting 
 downwards with the shelve of the sand till lost in 
 the deeper water. Are those little circlets of light 
 enclosing a round umbra or slightly darker spot, 
 that move along the bottom as the bubbles drift 
 above on the surface, shadows or reflections ? 
 
 In still, dark places of the stream, where there 
 seems no current, a dust gathers on the water, 
 falling from the trees, or borne thither by the wind 
 and dropping where its impulse ceases. Shadows 
 of branches lie here upon the surface itself, received 
 by the greenish water dust. Round the curve on 
 the concave and lee side of the river, where the 
 156
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 wind drives the wavelets direct upon the strand, 
 there are little beaches formed by the undermining 
 and fall of the bank. 
 
 The tiny surge rolls up the incline ; each wave 
 differing in the height to which it reaches, and 
 none of them alike, washing with it minute frag- 
 ments of stone and gravel, mere specks which 
 vibrate to and fro with the ripple and even drift 
 with the current. Will these fragments, after a 
 process of trituration, ultimately become sand ? A 
 groove runs athwart the bottom, left recently by 
 the keel of a skiff, recently only, for in a few hours 
 these specks of gravel, sand, and particles that sweep 
 along the bottom, fill up such depressions. The 
 motion of these atoms is not continuous, but in- 
 termittent ; now they rise and are carried a few 
 inches and there sink, in a minute or two to rise 
 again and proceed. 
 
 Looking to windward there is a dark tint upon 
 the water ; but down the stream, turning the other 
 way, intensely brilliant points of light appear and 
 disappear. Behind a boat rowed against the cur- 
 rent two widening lines of wavelets, in the shape 
 of an elongated V, stretch apart and glitter, and 
 every dip of the oars and the slippery oar blades 
 themselves, as they rise out of the water, reflect 
 the sunshine. The boat appears but to touch the 
 surface, instead of sinking into it, for the water is 
 157
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 transparent, and the eye can see underneath the 
 keel. 
 
 Here, by some decaying piles, a deep eddy whirls 
 slowly round and round ; they stand apart from the 
 shore, for the eddy has cleared away the earth 
 around them. Now, walking behind the waves 
 that roll away from you, dark shadowy spots 
 fluctuate to and fro in the trough of the water. 
 Before a glance can define its shape the shadow 
 elongates itself from a spot to an oval, the oval 
 melts into another oval, and reappears afar off. 
 When, too, in flood time, the hurrying current 
 seems to respond more sensitively to the shape of 
 the shallows and the banks beneath, there boils up 
 from below a ceaseless succession of irregular cir- 
 cles as if the water there expanded from a centre, 
 marking the verge of its outflow with bubbles 
 and raised lines upon the surface. 
 
 By the side float tiny whirlpools, some rotating 
 this way and some that, sucking down and boring 
 tubes into the stream. Longer lines wander past, 
 and as they go, curve round, till when about to 
 make a spiral they lengthen out and drift, and thus, 
 perpetually coiling and uncoiling, glide with the 
 current. They somewhat resemble the conven- 
 tional curved strokes which, upon an Assyrian bas- 
 relief, indicate water. 
 
 Under the spring sunshine, the idle stream flows 
 -158-
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 easily onward, yet every part of the apparently even 
 surface varies ; and so, too, in a larger way, the 
 aspects of the succeeding reaches change. Upon 
 one broad bend the tints are green, for the river 
 moves softly in a hollow, with its back as it were 
 to the wind. 
 
 The green lawn sloping to the shore, and the 
 dark cedar's storeys of flattened foliage, tier above 
 tier j the green osiers of two eyots ; the light- 
 leaved aspen ; the tall elms, fresh and green ; and 
 the green hawthorn bushes give their colour to the 
 water, smooth as if polished, in which they are re- 
 flected. A white swan floats in the still narrow 
 channel between the eyots, and there is a punt 
 painted green moored in a little inlet by the lawn, 
 and scarce visible under drooping boughs. Roofs 
 of red tile and dormer windows rise behind the 
 trees, the dull yellow of the walls is almost hidden, 
 and deep shadows lurk about the shore. 
 
 Opposite, across the stream, a wide greensward 
 stretches beside the towing-path, lit up with sun- 
 shine which touches the dandelions till they glow 
 in the grass. From time to time a nightingale 
 sings in a hawthorn unregarded, and in the elms of 
 the park hard by a crowd of jackdaws chatter. 
 But a little way round a curve the whole stream 
 opens to the sunlight and becomes blue, reflecting 
 the sky. Again, sweeping round another curve 
 159
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 with bounteous flow, the current meets the wind 
 direct, a cloud comes up, the breeze freshens, and 
 the watery green waves are tipped with foam. 
 
 Rolling upon the strand, they leave a line like a 
 tide marked by twigs and fragments of dead wood, 
 leaves, and the hop-like flowers of Chichester elms 
 which have been floated up and left. Over the 
 stormy waters a band of brown bank-martins wheel 
 hastily to and fro, and from the osiers the loud 
 chirp of the sedge-reedling rises above the buffet of 
 the wind against the ear, and the splashing of the 
 waves. 
 
 Once more a change, where the stream darts 
 along swiftly, after having escaped from a weir, 
 and still streaked with foam. The shore rises like 
 a sea beach, and on the pebbles men are patching 
 and pitching old barges which have been hauled 
 up on the bank. A skiff partly drawn up on the 
 beach rocks as the current strives to work it loose, 
 and up the varnish of the side glides a flickering 
 light reflected from the wavelets. A fleet of 
 such skiffs are waiting for hire by the bridge ; the 
 waterman cleaning them with a parti-coloured mop 
 spies me eyeing his vessels, and before I know 
 exactly what is going on, and whether I have yet 
 made up my mind, the sculls are ready, the 
 cushions in ; I take my seat, and am shoved gently 
 forth upon the stream. 
 
 160
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 After I have gone under the arch, and am clear 
 of all obstructions, I lay the sculls aside, and 
 reclining let the boat drift past a ballast punt 
 moored over the shallowest place, and with a rising 
 load of gravel. One man holds the pole steady- 
 ing the scoop, while his mate turns a windlass the 
 chain from which drags it along the bottom filling 
 the bag with pebbles, and finally hauls it to the 
 surface, when the contents are shot out in the punt. 
 
 It is a floating box rather than a boat, square at 
 each end, and built for capacity instead of progress. 
 There are others moored in various places, and all 
 hard at work. The men in this one, scarcely 
 glancing at my idle skiff, go steadily on, dropping 
 the scoop, steadying the pole, turning the crank, and 
 emptying the pebbles with a rattle. 
 
 Where do these pebbles come from ? Like the 
 stream itself there seems a continual supply ; if a 
 bank be scooped away and punted to the shore, 
 presently another bank forms. If a hollow be 
 deepened, by-and-by it fills up ; if a channel be 
 opened, after a while it shallows again. The 
 stony current flows along below, as the liquid 
 current above. Yet in so many centuries the 
 strand has not been cleared of its gravel, nor has 
 it all been washed out from the banks. 
 
 The skiff drifts again, at first slowly, till the 
 current takes hold of it and bears it onward. Soon 
 161
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 it is evident that a barge-port is near a haven 
 where barges discharge their cargoes. A by-way 
 leads down to the river where boats are lying for 
 hire a dozen narrow punts, waiting at this an- 
 chorage till groundbait be lawful. The ends of 
 varnished skiffs, high and dry, are visible in a shed 
 carefully covered with canvass; while sheaves of 
 oars and sculls lean against the wooden wall. 
 
 Through the open doors of another shed there 
 may be had a glimpse of shavings and tools, and 
 slight battens crossing the workshop in apparent 
 confusion, forming a curious framework. These 
 are the boat-builder's struts and stays, and contriv- 
 ances to keep the boat in rigid position, that her 
 lines may be true and delicate, strake upon strake 
 of dull red mahogany rising from the beechen keel, 
 for the craftsman strings his boat almost as a 
 violinist strings his violin, with the greatest care 
 and heed, and with a right adjustment of curve 
 and due proportion. There is not much clinking, 
 or sawing, or thumping j little noise, but much 
 skill. 
 
 Gradually the scene opens. Far down a white 
 bridge spans the river ; on the shore red-tiled and 
 gabled houses crowd to the very edge ; and behind 
 them a church tower stands out clear against the 
 sky. There are barges everywhere. By the 
 towing-path colliers are waiting to be drawn up
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 stream, black as their freight, by the horses that are 
 nibbling the hawthorn hedge ; while by the wharf, 
 labourers are wheeling barrows over bending planks 
 from the barges to the carts upon the shore. A 
 tug comes under the bridge, panting, every puff 
 re-echoed from the arches, dragging by sheer force 
 deeply laden flats behind it. The water in front 
 of their bluff bows rises in a wave nearly to the 
 deck, and then swoops in a sweeping curve to the 
 rear. 
 
 The current by the port runs back on the 
 wharf side towards its source, and the foam drifts 
 up the river instead of down. Green flags on 
 a sandbank far out in the stream, their roots 
 covered and their bent tips only visible, now swing 
 with the water and now heel over with the breeze. 
 The Edwin and Angelina lies at anchor, waiting 
 to be warped into her berth, her sails furled, her 
 green painted water barrel lashed by the stern, her 
 tiller idle after the long and toilsome voyage from 
 Rochester. 
 
 For there are perils of the deep even to those 
 who only go down to it in barges. Barge as she 
 is, she is not without a certain beauty, and a 
 certain interest, inseparable from all that has re- 
 ceived the buffet of the salt water, and over which 
 the salt spray has flown. Barge too, as she is, she 
 bears her part in the commerce of the world. 
 163
 
 :&-^ NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 The very architecture on the shore is old-fashioned 
 where these bluff-bowed vessels come, narrow 
 streets and over-hanging houses, boat anchors in 
 the windows, sails and tarry ropes ; and is there 
 not a Row Barge Inn somewhere ? 
 
 " Hoy, ahoy ! " 
 
 The sudden shout startles me, and, glancing 
 round, I find an empty black barge, high out of the 
 water, floating helplessly down upon me with the 
 stream. Noiselessly the great hulk had drifted 
 upon me ; as it came the light glinted on the 
 wavelets before the bow, quick points of brilliant 
 light. But two strokes with the sculls carried me 
 out of the way. 
 
 -164-
 
 NUTTY AUTUMN 
 
 |HERE is some honeysuckle still flow- 
 ering at the tops of the hedges, where 
 in the morning gossamer lies like a 
 dewy net. The gossamer is a sign 
 both of approaching autumn and, exactly at the 
 opposite season of the year, of approaching spring. 
 It stretches from pole to pole, and bough to bough, 
 in the copses in February, as the lark sings. It 
 covers the furze, and lies along the hedge-tops in 
 September, as the lark, after a short or partial 
 silence, occasionally sings again. 
 
 But the honeysuckle does not flower so finely 
 as the first time ; there is more red (the unopened 
 petal) than white, and beneath, lower down the 
 stalk, are the red berries, the fruit of the former 
 bloom. Yellow weed, or ragwort, covers some 
 fields almost as thickly as buttercups in summer, 
 but it lacks the rich colour of the buttercup. Some 
 knotty knapweeds stay in out-of-the-way places, 
 where the scythe has not been ; some bunches of 
 mayweed, too, are visible in the corners of the 
 stubble. 
 
 -165-
 
 sr~~3S NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 Silverweed lays its golden flower like a butter- 
 cup without a stalk level on the ground ; it has 
 no protection, and any passing foot may press it 
 into the dust. A few white or pink flowers 
 appear on the brambles, and in waste places a little 
 St. John's wort remains open, but the seed vessels 
 are for the most part forming. St. John's wort is 
 the flower of the harvest; the yellow petals appear 
 as the wheat ripens, and there are some to be 
 found till the sheaves are carted. Once now and 
 then a blue and slender bell-flower is lighted on ; in 
 Sussex the larger varieties bloom till much later. 
 
 By still ponds, to which the moorhens have now 
 returned, tall spikes of purple loosestrife rise in 
 bunches. In the furze there is still much yellow, 
 and wherever heath grows it spreads in shim- 
 mering gleams of purple between the birches ; for 
 these three, furze, heath, and birch, are usually 
 together. The fields, therefore, are not yet flower- 
 less, nor yet without colour here and there, and 
 the leaves, which stay on the trees till late in the 
 autumn, are more interesting now than they have 
 been since they lost their first fresh green. 
 
 Oak, elm, beech, and birch, all have yellow 
 spots, while retaining their groundwork of green. 
 Oaks are often much browner, but the moisture in 
 the atmosphere keeps the sap in the leaves. Even 
 the birches are only tinted in a few places, the 
 166
 
 E^srsss^ NUTTY AUTUMN jgF_ 
 
 elms very little, and the beeches not much more : 
 so it would seem that their hues will not be gone 
 altogether till November. Frosts have not yet 
 bronzed the dogwood in the hedges, and the hazel 
 leaves are fairly firm. The hazel generally drops 
 its leaves at a touch about this time, and while you 
 are nutting, if you shake a bough, they come down 
 all around. 
 
 The rushes are but faintly yellow, and the slen- 
 der tips still point upwards. Dull purple burrs 
 cover the burdock ; the broad limes are withering, 
 but the leaves are thick, and the teazles are still 
 flowering. Looking upwards, the trees are tinted; 
 lower, the hedges are not without colour, and the 
 field itself is speckled with blue and yellow. 
 The stubble is almost hidden in many fields by the 
 growth of weeds brought up by the rain ; still the 
 tops appear above and do not allow it to be green. 
 The stubble has a colour white if barley, yellow 
 if wheat or oats. The meads are as verdant, even 
 more so, than in the spring, because of the rain, 
 and the brooks crowded with green flags. 
 
 Haws are very plentiful this year (1881), and 
 exceptionally large, many fully double the size 
 commonly seen. So heavily are the branches 
 laden with bunches of the red fruit that they 
 droop as apple trees do with a more edible burden. 
 Though so big, and to all appearance tempting to 
 167
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 birds, none have yet been eaten ; and, indeed, 
 haws seem to be resorted to only as a change, 
 unless severe weather compels. 
 
 Just as we vary our diet, so birds eat haws, and 
 not many of them till driven by frost and snow. If 
 any stay on till the early months of next year, wood- 
 pigeons and missel-thrushes will then eat them ; 
 but at this season they are untouched. Black- 
 birds will peck open the hips directly the frost 
 comes ; the hips go long before the haws. There 
 was a large crop of mountain-ash berries, every one 
 of which has been taken by blackbirds and thrushes, 
 which are almost as fond of them as of garden 
 fruit. 
 
 Blackberries are thick, too it is a berry year 
 and up in the horse-chestnut the prickly coated 
 nuts hang up in bunches, as many as eight on a 
 stalk. Acorns are large, but not so singularly 
 numerous as the berries, nor are hazel-nuts. This 
 provision of hedge-fruit no more indicates a severe 
 winter than a damaged wheat harvest indicates a 
 mild one. 
 
 There is something wrong with elm trees. In 
 the early part of this summer, not long after the 
 leaves were fairly out upon them, here and there a 
 branch appeared as if it had been touched with 
 red-hot iron and burnt up, all the leaves withered 
 and browned on the boughs. First one tree was 
 168
 
 E3* NUTTY AUTUMN 
 
 thus affected, then another, then a third, till, looking 
 round the fields, it seemed as if every fourth or 
 fifth tree had thus been burnt. 
 
 It began with the leaves losing colour, much as 
 they do in autumn, on the particular bough ; grad- 
 ually they faded, and finally became brown and of 
 course dead. As they did not appear to shrivel 
 up, it looked as if the grub or insect, or whatever 
 did the mischief, had attacked, not the leaves, but 
 the bough itself. Upon mentioning this I found 
 that it had been noticed in elm avenues and groups 
 a hundred miles distant, so that it is not a local 
 circumstance. 
 
 As far as yet appears, the elms do not seem 
 materially injured, the damage being outwardly 
 confined to the bough attacked. These brown 
 spots looked very remarkable just after the trees 
 had become green. They were quite distinct 
 from the damage caused by the snow of October, 
 1880. The boughs broken by the snow had 
 leaves upon them which at once turned brown, 
 and in the case of the oak were visible, the fol- 
 lowing spring, as brown spots among the green. 
 These snapped boughs never bore leaf again. It 
 was the young fresh green leaves of the elms, those 
 that appeared in the spring of 1881, that withered 
 as if scorched. The boughs upon which they 
 grew had not been injured ; they were small boughs 
 -169-
 
 ap=-=ag NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 at the outside of the tree. I hear that this scorch- 
 ing up of elm leaves has been noticed in other 
 districts for several seasons. 
 
 The dewdrops of the morning, preserved by the 
 mist, which the sun does not disperse for some 
 hours, linger on late in shaded corners, as under 
 trees, on drooping blades of grass, and on the 
 petals of flowers. Wild bees and wasps may 
 often be noticed on these blades of grass that are 
 still wet, as if they could suck some sustenance 
 from the dew. Wasps fight hard for their exist- 
 ence as the nights grow cold. Desperate and 
 ravenous, they will eat anything, but perish by 
 hundreds as the warmth declines. 
 
 Dragon-flies of the larger size are now very 
 busy rushing to and fro on their double wings ; 
 those who go blackberrying or nutting cannot fail 
 to see them. Only a very few days since it does 
 not seem a week there was a chiff-chaff" calling 
 in a copse as merrily as in the spring. This little 
 bird is the first, or very nearly the first, to come 
 in the spring, and one of the last to go as autumn 
 approaches. It is curious that, though singled out 
 as a first sign of spring, the chiff-chaff has never 
 entered into the home life of the people like the 
 robin, the swallow, or even the sparrow. 
 
 There is nothing about it in the nursery rhymes 
 
 or stories, no one goes out to listen to it, children 
 
 170
 
 NUTTY AUTUMN JEEZ 
 
 are not taught to recognise it, and grown-up per- 
 sons are often quite unaware of it. I never once 
 heard a countryman, a labourer, a farmer, or any 
 one who was always out-of-doors, so much as 
 allude to it. They never noticed it, so much is 
 every one the product of habit. 
 
 The first swallow they looked for, and never 
 missed ; but they neither heard nor saw the chiff- 
 chaff. To those who make any study at all of 
 birds it is, of course, perfectly familiar; but to the 
 bulk of people it is unknown. Yet it is one of the 
 commonest of migratory birds, and sings in every 
 copse and hedgerow, using loud, unmistakable notes. 
 At last, in the middle of September, the chiff-chaff, 
 too, is silent. The swallow remains; but for the 
 rest, the birds have flocked together, finches, star- 
 lings, sparrows, and gone forth into the midst of 
 the stubble far from the place where their nests 
 were built, and where they sang, and chirped, and 
 whistled so long. 
 
 The swallows, too, are not without thought of 
 going. They may be seen twenty in a row, one 
 above the other, or on the slanting ropes or guys 
 which hold up the masts of the rickcloths over the 
 still unfinished cornricks. They gather in rows on 
 the ridges of the tiles, and wisely take counsel of 
 each other. Rooks are up at the acorns; they 
 take them from the bough, while the pheasants 
 171
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON ys^= 
 
 come underneath and pick up those that have 
 fallen. 
 
 The partridge coveys are more numerous and 
 larger than they have been for several seasons, and 
 though shooting has now been practised for more 
 than a fortnight, as many as twelve and seventeen 
 are still to be counted together. They have more 
 cover than usual at this season, not only because 
 the harvest is still about, but because where cut the 
 stubble is so full of weeds that when crouching 
 they are hidden. In some fields the weeds are so 
 thick that even a pheasant can hide. 
 
 South of London the harvest commenced in the 
 last week of July. The stubble that was first cut 
 still remains unploughed ; it is difficult to find a 
 fresh furrow, and I have only once or twice heard 
 the quick strong puffing of the steam-plough. 
 While the wheat was in shock it was a sight to 
 see the wood-pigeons at it. Flocks of hundreds 
 came perching on the sheaves, and visiting the 
 same field day after day. The sparrows have 
 never had such a feast of grain as this year. 
 Whole corners of wheatfields they work more 
 at corners were cleared out as clean by them as 
 if the wheat had been threshed as it stood. 
 
 The sunshine of the autumn afternoons is faintly 
 tawny, and the long grass by the wayside takes 
 from it a tawny undertone. Some other colour 
 172
 
 1E3K NUTTY AUTUMN 2S^gBQg>E 
 
 than the green of each separate blade, if gathered, 
 lies among the bunches, a little, perhaps, like the 
 hue of the narrow pointed leaves of the reeds. It 
 is caught only for a moment, and looked at steadily 
 it goes. Among the grass, the hawkweeds, one or 
 two dandelions, and a stray buttercup, all yellow, 
 favour the illusion. By the bushes there is a 
 double row of pale buff bryony leaves ; these, too, 
 help to increase the sense of a secondary colour. 
 
 The atmosphere holds the beams, and abstracts 
 from them th-eir white brilliance. They come 
 slower with a drowsy light, which casts a less de- 
 fined shadow of the still oaks. The yellow and 
 brown leaves in the oaks, in the elms, and the 
 beeches, in their turn affect the rays, and retouch 
 them with their own hue. An immaterial mist 
 across the fields looks like a cloud of light hover- 
 ing on the stubble : the light itself made visible. 
 
 The tawniness is indistinct, it haunts the sun- 
 shine, and is not to be fixed, any more than you 
 can say where it begins and ends in the complexion 
 of a brunette. Almost too large for their cups, 
 the acorns have a shade of the same hue now 
 before they become brown. As it withers, the 
 many-pointed leaf of the white bryony and the bine 
 as it shrivels, in like manner, do their part. The 
 white thistle-down, which stays on the bursting 
 thistles because there is no wind to waft it away, 
 173
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 reflects it ; the white is pushed aside by the colour 
 that the stained sunbeams bring. 
 
 Pale yellow thatch on the wheatricks becomes 
 a deeper yellow ; broad roofs of old red tiles 
 smoulder under it. What can you call it but 
 tawniness ? the earth sunburnt once more at 
 harvest time. Sunburnt and brown for it deep- 
 ens into brown. Brown partridges, and pheasants, 
 at a distance brown, their long necks stretched in 
 front and long tails behind gleaming in the stubble. 
 Brown thrushes just venturing to sing again. Brown 
 clover hayricks; the bloom on the third crop 
 yonder, which was recently a bright colour, is fast 
 turning brown, too. 
 
 Here and there a thin layer of brown leaves 
 rustles under foot. The scaling bark on the lower 
 part of the tree trunks is brown. Dry dock stems, 
 fallen branches, the very shadows, are not black, 
 but brown. With red hips and haws, red bryony 
 and woodbine berries, these together cause the 
 sense rather than the actual existence of a tawny 
 tint. It is pleasant j but sunset comes so soon, 
 and then after the trees are in shadow beneath, the 
 yellow spots at the tops of the elms still receive 
 the light from the west a few moments longer. 
 
 There is something nutty in the short autumn 
 day shorter than its duration as measured by 
 hours, for the enjoyable day is between the clearing 
 174
 
 NUTTY AUTUMN 
 
 of the mist and the darkening of the shadows. 
 The nuts are ripe, and with them is associated 
 wine and fruit. They are hard but tasteful ; if 
 you eat one you want ten, and after ten twenty. 
 In the wine there is a glow, a spot like tawny 
 sunlight ; it falls on your hand as you lift the 
 glass. 
 
 They are never really nuts unless you gather 
 them yourself. Put down the gun a minute or 
 two, and pull the boughs this way. One or two 
 may drop of themselves as the branch is shaken, 
 one among the brambles, another outwards into 
 the stubble. The leaves rustle against hat and 
 shoulders ; a thistle is crushed under foot, and the 
 down at last released. Bines of bryony hold the 
 ankles, and hazel boughs are stiff and not ready 
 to bend to the will. This large brown nut must 
 be cracked at once ; the film slips off the kernel, 
 which is white underneath. It is sweet. 
 
 The tinted sunshine comes through between the 
 tall hazel rods ; there is a grasshopper calling in the 
 sward on the other side of the mound. The bird's 
 nest in the thorn-bush looks as perfect as -if just 
 made, instead of having been left long long since 
 the young birds have flocked into the stubbles. 
 On the briar which holds the jacket the canker 
 rose, which was green in summer, is now rosy. 
 No such nuts as those captured with cunning 
 175
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 search from the bough in the tinted sunlight and 
 under the changing leaf. 
 
 The autumn itself is nutty, brown, hard, frosty, 
 and sweet. Nuts are hard, frosts are hard ; but 
 the one is sweet, and the other braces the strong. 
 Exercise often wearies in the spring, and in the 
 summer heats is scarcely to be faced ; but in 
 autumn, to those who are well, every step is 
 bracing and hardens the frame, as the sap is 
 hardening in the trees. 
 
 -176
 
 ROUND A LONDON COPSE 
 
 *N October a party of wood-pigeons took up 
 their residence in the little copse which has 
 been previously mentioned. It stands in the 
 angle formed by two suburban roads, and the 
 trees in it overshadow some villa gardens. This 
 copse has always been a favourite with birds, and 
 it is not uncommon to see a pheasant about it, 
 sometimes within gun-shot of the gardens, while 
 the call of the partridges in the evening may now 
 and then be heard from the windows. But though 
 frequently visited by wood-pigeons, they did not 
 seem to make any stay till now when this party 
 arrived. 
 
 There were eight of them. During the day 
 they made excursions into the stubble fields, and 
 in the evening returned to roost. They remained 
 through the winter, which will be remembered as 
 the most severe for many years. Even in the 
 sharpest frost, if the sun shone out, they called to 
 each other now and then. On the first day of the 
 year their hollow cooirig came from the copse at 
 midday. 
 
 iz 177
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON %~r~ 
 
 During the deep snow which blocked the roads 
 and covered the fields almost a foot deep, they 
 were silent, but were constantly observed flying to 
 and fro. Immediately it became milder they re- 
 commenced to coo, so that at intervals the note of 
 the wood-pigeon was heard in the adjacent house 
 from October, all through the winter, till the 
 nesting time in May. Sometimes towards sunset 
 in the early spring they all perched together before 
 finally retiring on the bare, slender tips of the tall 
 birch trees, exposed and clearly visible against the 
 sky. 
 
 Six once alighted in a row on a long birch 
 branch, bending it down with their weight like 
 a heavy load of fruit. The stormy sunset flamed 
 up, tinting the fields with momentary red, and 
 their hollow voices sounded among the trees. By 
 May they had paired off, and each couple had a 
 part of the copse to themselves. Instead of avoid- 
 ing the house, they seemed, on the contrary, to 
 come much nearer, and two or three couples built 
 close to the garden. 
 
 Just there, the wood being bare of undergrowth, 
 there was nothing to obstruct the sight but some 
 few dead hanging branches, and the pigeons or 
 ringdoves could be seen continually flying up and 
 down from the ground to their nests. They were 
 so near that the darker marking at the end of the 
 178-
 
 ^Z-S ROUND A LONDON C O P S E SEI 
 
 tail, as it was spread open to assist the upward 
 flight to the branch, was visible. Outside the 
 garden gate, and not more than twenty yards 
 distant, there stood three young spruce firs, at the 
 edge of the copse, but without the boundary. To 
 the largest of these one of the pigeons came now 
 and then ; he was half inclined to choose it for his 
 nest. 
 
 The noise of their wings as they rose and 
 threshed their strong feathers together over the 
 tops of the trees was often heard, and while in the 
 garden one might be watched approaching from a 
 distance, swift as the wind, then suddenly half- 
 closing his wings and shooting forwards, he alighted 
 among the boughs. Their coo is not in any sense 
 tuneful ; yet it has a pleasant association ; for the 
 ringdove is pre-eminently the bird of the woods 
 and forests, and rightly named the wood-pigeon. 
 Yet though so associated with the deepest and 
 most lonely woods, here they were close to the 
 house and garden, constantly heard, and almost 
 always visible ; and London, too, so near. They 
 seemed almost as familiar as the sparrows and 
 starlings. 
 
 These pigeons were new inhabitants; but turtle- 
 
 doves had built in the copse since I knew it. 
 
 They were late coming the last spring I watched 
 
 them ; but, when they did, chose a spot much 
 
 179
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 nearer the house than usual. The turtle-dove has 
 a way of gurgling the soft vowels " oo " in the 
 throat. Swallows do not make a summer, but 
 when the turtle-dove coos summer is certainly 
 come. One afternoon one of the pair flew up 
 into a hornbeam which stood beside the garden not 
 twenty yards at farthest. At first he sat upright 
 on the branch watching me below, then turned and 
 fluttered down to the nest beneath. 
 
 While this nesting was going on I could hear 
 five different birds at once either in the garden or 
 from any of the windows. The doves cooed, and 
 every now and then their gentle tones were over- 
 powered by the loud call of the wood-pigeons. A 
 cuckoo called from the top of the tallest birch, and 
 a nightingale and a brook-sparrow (or sedge- 
 reedling) were audible together in the common on 
 the opposite side of the road. It is remarkable that 
 one season there seems more of one kind of bird 
 than the next. The year alluded to, for instance, 
 in this copse was the wood-pigeons' year. But 
 one season previously the copse seemed to belong 
 to the missel-thrushes. 
 
 Early in the March mornings I used to wake 
 as the workmen's trains went rumbling by to the 
 great City, to see on the ceiling by the window a 
 streak of sunlight, tinted orange by the vapour 
 through which the level beams had passed. Some- 
 180
 
 ROUND A LONDON COPSES- 
 
 thing in the sense of morning lifts the heart up to 
 the sun. The light, the air, the waving branches 
 speak ; the earth and life seem boundless at that 
 moment. In this it is the same on the verge of 
 the artificial City as when the rays come stream- 
 ing through the pure atmosphere of the Downs. 
 While thus thinking, suddenly there rang out three 
 clear, trumpet-like notes from a tree at the edge of 
 the copse by the garden. A softer song followed, 
 and then again the same three notes, whose wild 
 sweetness echoed through the wood. 
 
 The voice of the missel-thrush sounded not only 
 close at hand and in the room, but repeated itself 
 as it floated away, as the bugle-call does. He is 
 the trumpeter of spring : Lord of March, his proud 
 call challenges the woods ; there are none who can 
 answer. Listen for the missel-thrush : when he 
 sings the snow may fall, the rain drift, but not for 
 long; the violets are near at hand. The nest was 
 in a birch visible from the garden, and that season 
 seemed to be the missel-thrush's. Another 'year 
 the cuckoos had possession. 
 
 There is a detached ash tree in the field by the 
 copse ; it stands apart, and about sixty or seventy 
 yards from the garden. A cuckoo came to this 
 ash every morning, and called there for an hour at 
 a time, his notes echoing along the building, one 
 following the other as wavelets roll on the summer 
 181
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 sands. After a while two more used to appear, 
 and then there was a chase round the copse, up to 
 the tallest birch, and out to the ash tree again. 
 This went on day after day, and was repeated 
 every evening. Flying from the ash to the copse 
 and returning, the birds were constantly in sight ; 
 they sometimes passed over the house, and the call 
 became so familiar that it was not regarded any 
 more than the chirp of a sparrow. Till the very 
 last the cuckoos remained there, and never ceased 
 to be heard till they left to cross the seas. 
 
 That was the cuckoos' season ; next spring 
 they returned again, but much later than usual, and 
 did not call so much, nor were they seen so often 
 while they were there. One was calling in the 
 copse on the evening of the 6th of May as late as 
 half-past eight, while the moon was shining. But 
 they were not so prominent ; and as for the missel- 
 thrushes, I did not hear them at all in the copse. 
 It was the wood-pigeons' year. Thus the birds 
 come in successioa and reign by turns. 
 
 Even the starlings vary, regular as they are by 
 habit. This season (1881) none have whistled 
 on the house-top. In previous years they have 
 always come, and only the preceding spring a pair 
 filled the gutter with the materials of their nest. 
 Long after they had finished a storm descended, and 
 the rain, thus dammed up and unable to escape, 
 182
 
 ROUND A LONDON COPSE W^^K 
 
 flooded the corner. It cost half a sovereign to 
 repair the damage, but it did not matter; the star- 
 lings had been happy. It has been a disappoint- 
 ment this year not to listen to their eager whistling 
 and the flutter of their wings as they vibrate them 
 rapidly while hovering a moment before entering 
 their cavern. A pair of house-martins, too, built 
 under the eaves close to the starling's nest, and 
 they also disappointed me by not returning this 
 season, though the nest was not touched. Some 
 fate, I fear, overtook both starlings and house- 
 martins. 
 
 Another time it was the season of the lapwings. 
 Towards the end of November (1881), there 
 appeared a large flock of peewits, or green plovers, 
 which flock passed most of the day in a broad, 
 level ploughed field of great extent. At this time 
 I estimated their number as about four hundred ; 
 far exceeding any flock I had previously seen in 
 the neighbourhood. Fresh parties joined the main 
 body continually, until by December there could 
 not have been less than a thousand. Still more 
 and more arrived, and by the first of January (i 882) 
 even this number was doubled, and there were 
 certainly fully two thousand there. It is the habit 
 of green plovers to all move at once, to rise from 
 the ground simultaneously, to turn in the air, or to 
 descend and all so regular that their very wings 
 -183-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 seem to flap together. The effect of such a vast 
 body of white-breasted birds uprising as one from 
 the dark ploughed earth was very remarkable. 
 
 When they passed overhead the air sang like the 
 midsummer hum with the shrill noise of beating 
 wings. When they wheeled a light shot down re- 
 flected from their white breasts, so that people 
 involuntarily looked up to see what it could be. 
 The sun shone on them, so that at a distance the 
 flock resembled a cloud brilliantly illuminated. In 
 an instant they turned and the cloud was dark- 
 ened. Such a great flock had not been seen in that 
 district in the memory of man. 
 
 There did not seem any reason for their con- 
 gregating in this manner, unless it was the mild- 
 ness of the winter, but winters had been mild 
 before without such a display. The birds as a 
 mass rarely left this one particular field they 
 voyaged round in the air and settled again in the 
 same place. Some few used to spend hours with 
 the sheep in a meadow, remaining there till dusk, 
 till the mist hid them, and their cry sounded afar 
 in the gloom. They stayed all through the winter, 
 breaking up as the spring approached. By March 
 the great flock had dispersed. 
 
 The winter was very mild. There were butter- 
 cups, avens, and white nettles in flower on De- 
 cember 3 ist. On January yth, there were briar buds 
 -184-
 
 ROUND A LONDON COPSE 
 
 opening into young leaf; on the Qth a dandelion in 
 flower, and an arum up. A grey veronica was try- 
 ing to open flower on the nth, and hawthorn buds 
 were so far open that the green was visible on the 
 1 6th. On February I4th a yellow-hammer sang, 
 and brambles had put forth green buds. Two 
 wasps went by in the sunshine. The I4th is Old 
 Candlemas, supposed to rule the weather for some 
 time after. Old Candlemas was very fine and 
 sunny till night, when a little rain fell. The 
 summer that followed was cold and ungenial, with 
 easterly winds, though fortunately it brightened up 
 somewhat for the harvest. A chaffinch sang on 
 the 2Oth of February : all these are very early 
 dates. 
 
 One morning while I was watching these plovers, 
 a man with a gun got over a gate into the road. 
 Another followed, apparently without a weapon, 
 but as the first proceeded to take his gun to pieces, 
 and put the barrel in one pocket at the back of his 
 coat, and the stock in a second, it is possible that 
 there was another gun concealed. The coolness 
 with which the fellow did this on the highway 
 was astounding, but his impudence was surpassed 
 by his stupidity, for at the very moment he hid 
 the gun there was a rabbit out feeding within easy 
 range, which neither of these men observed. 
 
 The boughs of a Scotch fir nearly reached to 
 -185-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 one window. If I recollect rightly, the snow 
 was on the ground in the early part of the year, 
 when a golden-crested wren came to it. He 
 visited it two or three times a week for some time ; 
 his golden crest distinctly seen among the dark 
 green needles of the fir. 
 
 There are squirrels in the copse, and now and 
 then one comes within sight. In the summer 
 there was one in the boughs of an oak close to the 
 garden. Once, and once only, a pair of them 
 ventured into the garden itself, deftly passing along 
 the wooden palings and exploring a guelder rose- 
 bush. The pheasants which roost in the copse 
 wander to it from distant preserves. One morning 
 in spring, before the corn was up, there was one 
 in a field by the copse calmly walking along the 
 ridge of a furrow so near that the ring round his 
 neck was visible from the road. 
 
 In the early part of last autumn, while the 
 acorns were dropping from the oaks and the berries 
 ripe, I twice disturbed a pheasant from the garden 
 of a villa not far distant. There were some oaks 
 hard by, and from under these the bird had wan- 
 dered into the quiet sequestered garden. The oak 
 in the copse on which the squirrel was last seen 
 is peculiar for bearing oak-apples earlier than any 
 other of the neighbourhood, and there are often 
 half a dozen of them on the twigs on the trunk 
 186
 
 ROUND A LONDON COPSE = 
 
 before there is one anywhere else. The famous 
 snowstorm of October, 1880, snapped off the 
 leader or top of this oak. 
 
 Jays often come, magpies more rarely, to the 
 copse ; as for the lesser birds they all visit it. In 
 the hornbeams at the verge blackcaps sing in 
 spring a sweet and cultured song, which does not 
 last many seconds. They visit a thick bunch of 
 ivy in the garden. By these hornbeam trees a 
 streamlet flows out of the copse, crossed at the hedge 
 by a pole, to prevent cattle straying in. The pole 
 is a robin's perch. He is always there, or near; he 
 was there all through the terrible winter, all the 
 summer, and he is there now. 
 
 There are a few inches, a narrow strip of sand, 
 beside the streamlet under this pole. Whenever a 
 wagtail dares to come to this sand the robin im- 
 mediately appears and drives him away. He will 
 bear no intrusion. A pair of butcher-birds built 
 very near this spot one spring, but afterwards ap- 
 peared to remove to a place where there is more 
 furze, but beside the same hedge. The determina- 
 tion and fierce resoluton of the shrike, or butcher- 
 bird, despite his small size, is most marked. ' One 
 day a shrike darted down from a hedge just before 
 me, not a yard in front, and dashed a dandelion to 
 the ground. 
 
 His claws clasped the stalk, and the flower was 
 -187-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 crushed in a moment ; he came with such force as 
 to partly lose his balance. His prey was probably 
 a humble-bee which had settled on the dandelion. 
 The shrike's head resembles that of the eagle in 
 miniature. From his favourite branch he surveys 
 the grass, and in an instant pounces on his victim. 
 
 There is a quiet lane leading out of one of the 
 roads which have been mentioned down into a 
 wooded hollow, where there are two ponds, one 
 on each side of the lane. Standing here one 
 morning in the early summer, suddenly a king- 
 fisher came shooting straight towards me, and 
 swerving a little passed within three yards ; his 
 blue wings, his ruddy front, the white streak be- 
 side his neck, and long bill were visible for a 
 moment ; then he was away, straight over the 
 meadows, till he cleared a distant hedge and disap- 
 peared. He was probably on his way to visit his 
 nest, for though living by the streams kingfishers 
 often have their nest a considerable way from 
 water. 
 
 Two years had gone by since I saw one here 
 before, perched then on the trunk of a willow 
 which overhangs one of the ponds. After that 
 came the severe winters, and it seemed as if the 
 kingfishers were killed off, for they are often de- 
 stroyed by frost, so that the bird came unexpectedly 
 from the shadow of the trees, across the lane, and 
 188
 
 ROUND A LONDON COPSE s~ 
 
 out into the sunshine over the field. It was a 
 great pleasure to see a kingfisher again. 
 
 This hollow is the very place of singing birds in 
 June. Up in the oaks blackbirds whistle you 
 do not often see them, for they seek the leafy top 
 branches, but once now and then while fluttering 
 across to another perch. The blackbird's whistle 
 is very human, like some one playing the flute; an 
 uncertain player now drawing forth a bar of a 
 beautiful melody and then losing it again. He 
 does not know what quiver or what turn his note 
 will take before it ends ; the note leads him and 
 completes itself. His music strives to express his 
 keen appreciation of the loveliness of the days, the 
 golden glory of the meadow, the light, and the 
 luxurious shadows. 
 
 Such thoughts can only be expressed in frag- 
 ments, like a sculptor's chips thrown off as the 
 inspiration seizes him, not mechanically sawn to a 
 set line. Now and again the blackbird feels the 
 beauty of the time, the large white daisy stars, the 
 grass with yellow-dusted tips, the air which comes 
 so softly unperceived by any precedent rustle of 
 the hedge. He feels the beauty of the time, and 
 he must say it. His notes come like wild flowers 
 not sown in order. There is not an oak here in 
 June without a blackbird. 
 
 Thrushes sing louder here than anywhere else; 
 -189-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON s^a* 
 
 they really seem to sing louder, and they are all 
 around. Thrushes appear to vary their notes 
 with the period of the year, singing louder in the 
 summer, and in the mild days of October when the 
 leaves lie brown and buff on the sward under their 
 perch more plaintively and delicately. \Varblers 
 and willow-wrens sing in the hollow in June, all 
 out of sight among the trees they are easily 
 hidden by a leaf. 
 
 At that time the ivy leaves which flourish up to 
 the very tops of the oaks are so smooth with 
 enamelled surface, that high up, as the wind moves 
 them, they reflect the sunlight and scintillate. 
 Greenfinches in the elms never cease love-making ; 
 and love-making needs much soft talking. A 
 nightingale in a bush sings so loud the hawthorn 
 seems too small for the vigour of the song. He will 
 let you stand at the very verge of the bough ; but 
 it is too near, his voice is sweeter across the field. 
 
 There are still, in October, a few red apples on 
 the boughs of the trees in a little orchard beside 
 the same road. It is a natural orchard left to 
 itself therefore there is always something to see 
 in it. The palings by the road are falling, and are 
 held up chiefly by the brambles about them and the 
 ivy that has climbed up. Trees stand on the 
 right and trees on the left ; there is a tall spruce 
 fir at the back. 
 
 190
 
 ROUND A LONDON COPSE 
 
 The apple trees are not set in straight lines : 
 they were at first, but some have died away and 
 left an irregularity ; the trees lean this way and 
 that, and they are scarred and marked as it were 
 with lichen and moss. It is the home of birds. 
 A blackbird had its nest this spring in the bushes 
 on the left side, a nightingale another in the bushes 
 on the right, and there the nightingale sang under 
 the shadow of a hornbeam for hours every morning 
 while " City " men were hurrying past to their 
 train. 
 
 The sharp relentless shrike that used to live by 
 the copse moved up here, and from that very horn- 
 beam perpetually darted across the road upon in- 
 sects in the fern and furze opposite. He never 
 entered the orchard ; it is often noticed that birds 
 (and beasts of prey) do not touch creatures that 
 build near their own nests. . Several thrushes re- 
 side in the orchard ; swallows frequently twittered 
 from the tops of the apple trees. As the grass is 
 so safe from intrusion, one of the earliest butter- 
 cups flowers here. Bennets the flower of the 
 grass come up; the first bennet is to green 
 things what the first swallow is to the breathing 
 creatures of summer. 
 
 On a bare bough, but lately scourged by the 
 east wind, the apple bloom appears, set about with 
 the green of the hedges and the dark spruce be- 
 191
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 hind. White horse-chestnut blooms stand up in 
 their stately way, lighting the path which is strewn 
 with the green moss-like flowers fallen from the 
 oaks. There is an early bush of May. When 
 the young apples take form and shape, the grass is 
 so high even the buttercups are overtopped by it. 
 Along the edge of the roadside footpath, where the 
 dandelions, plantains, and grasses are thick with 
 seed, the greenfinches come down and feed. 
 
 Now the apples are red that are left, and they 
 hang on 'boughs from which the leaves are blown 
 by every gust. But it does not matter when you 
 pass, summer or autumn, this little orchard has 
 always something to offer. It is not neglected 
 it is true attention to leave it to itself. 
 
 Left to itself, so that the grass reaches its fullest 
 height ; so that bryony vines trail over the bushes 
 and stay till the berries fall of their own ripeness ; 
 so that the brown leaves lie and are not swept 
 away unless the wind chooses; so that all things 
 follow their own course and bent. The hedge 
 opposite in autumn, when reapers are busy with 
 the sheaves, is white with the large trumpet flowers 
 of the great wild convolvulus (or bindweed). The 
 hedge there seems made of convolvulus then ; 
 nothing but convolvulus, and nowhere else does the 
 flower flourish so strongly ; the bines remain till 
 the following spring. 
 
 -192
 
 <K ROUND A LONDON C O P S E ^ 
 
 Without a path through it, without a border or 
 parterre, unvisited, and left alone, the orchard has 
 acquired an atmosphere of peace and stillness, 
 such as grows up in woods and far-away lonely 
 places. It is so commonplace and unpretentious 
 that passers-by do not notice it ; it is merely a cor- 
 ner of meadow dotted with apple trees a place 
 that needs frequent glances and a dreamy mood to 
 understand it as the birds understand it. They are 
 always there. In spring, thrushes move along 
 rustling the fallen leaves as they search among the 
 arum sheaths unrolling beside the sheltering pal- 
 ings. There are nooks and corners whence shy 
 creatures can steal out from the shadow and be 
 happy. There is a loving streak of sunshine 
 somewhere among the tree trunks. 
 
 Though the copse is so much frequented the 
 migrant birds (which have now for the most part 
 gone) next spring will not be seen nor heard there 
 first. With one exception, it is not the first 
 place to find them. The cuckoos which come to 
 the copse do nor call till some time after others 
 have been heard in the neighbourhood. There 
 is another favourite copse a mile distant, and the 
 cuckoo can be heard near it quite a week earlier. 
 This last spring there were two days' difference 
 a marked interval. 
 
 The nightingale that sings in the bushes on the 
 
 13 -193-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 common immediately opposite the copse is late in 
 the same manner. There is a mound about half 
 a mile farther, where a nightingale always sings 
 first, before all the others of the district. The 
 one on the common began to sing last spring 
 a full week later. On the contrary, the sedge- 
 reedling, which chatters side by side with the 
 nightingale, is the first of all his kind to return 
 to the neighbourhood. The same thing happens 
 season after season, so that when once you know 
 these places you can always hear the birds several 
 days before other people. 
 
 \Vith flowers it is the same ; the lesser celan- 
 dine, the marsh marigold, the silvery cardamine, 
 appear first in one particular spot, and may be 
 gathered there before a petal has opened elsewhere. 
 The first swallow in this district generally appears 
 round about a pond near some farm buildings. 
 Birds care nothing for appropriate surroundings. 
 Hearing a titlark singing his loudest, I found him 
 perched on the rim of a tub placed for horses 
 to drink from. 
 
 This very pond by which the first swallow 
 appears is muddy enough, and surrounded with 
 poached mud, for a herd of cattle drink from and 
 stand in it. An elm overhangs it, and on the 
 lower branches, which are dead, the swallows perch 
 and sing just over the muddy water. A sow lies 
 194
 
 ROUND A LONDON COPSE 
 
 in the mire. But the sweet swallows sing on 
 softly ; they do not see the wallowing animal, the 
 mud, the brown water; they see only the sunshine, 
 the golden buttercups, and the blue sky of summer. 
 This is the true way to look at this beautiful 
 earth. 
 
 
 _ I95 _
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS 
 
 were ten magpies together on 
 the Qth of September, 1881, in a field 
 of clover beside a road but twelve 
 miles from Charing Cross. Ten mag- 
 pies would be a large number to see at once any- 
 where in the south, and not a little remarkable so 
 near town. The magpies were doubtless young 
 birds which had packed, and were bred in the nests 
 in the numerous elms of the hedgerows about there. 
 At one time they were scattered over the field, 
 their white and black colours dotted everywhere, 
 so that they seemed to hold entire possession of it. 
 Then a knot of them gathered together, more 
 came up, and there they were all ten fluttering and 
 restlessly moving. After a while they passed on 
 into the next field, which was stubble, and, collected 
 in a bunch, were even more conspicuous there, as 
 the stubble did not conceal them so much as the 
 clover. That was on the Qth of September ; by 
 the end of the month weeds had grown so high 
 that the stubble itself in that field had disappeared, 
 and from a distance it looked like pasture. In 
 -196-
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS 
 
 the stubble the magpies remained till I could watch 
 them no longer. 
 
 A short time afterwards, on the iyth of Septem- 
 ber, looking over the gateway of an adjacent field 
 which had been wheat, then only recently carried, 
 a pheasant suddenly appeared rising up out of the 
 stubble ; and then a second, and a third and fourth. 
 So tall were the weeds that, in a crouching pos- 
 ture, at the first glance they were not visible ; 
 then as they fed, stretching their necks out, only 
 the top of their backs could be seen. Presently 
 some more raised their heads in another part of 
 the field, then two more on the left side, and one 
 under an oak by the hedge, till seventeen were 
 counted. 
 
 These seventeen pheasants were evidently all 
 young birds, which had wandered from covers, 
 some distance, too, for there is no preserve within 
 a mile at least. Seven or eight came near each 
 other, forming a flock, but just out of gunshot 
 from the road. They were all extremely busy 
 feeding in the stubble. Next day half a dozen or 
 so still remained, but the rest had scattered; some 
 had gone across to an acre of barley yet standing 
 in a corner; some had followed the dropping 
 acorns along the hedge into another piece of 
 stubble ; others went into a breadth of turnips. 
 
 Day by day their numbers diminished as they 
 197
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 parted, till only three or four could be seen. Such 
 a sortie from cover is the standing risk of the game- 
 preserver. Towards the end of September, on 
 passing a barley-field, still partly uncut, and with 
 some spread, there was a loud, confused, murmur- 
 ing sound up in the trees, like that caused by the 
 immense flocks of starlings which collect in winter. 
 The sound, however, did not seem quite the same, 
 and upon investigation it turned out to be an in- 
 credible number of sparrows, whose voices were 
 audible across the field. 
 
 They presently flew out from the hedge, and 
 alighted on one of the rows of cut barley, making 
 it suddenly brown from one end to the other. 
 There must have been thousands; they continually 
 flew up, swept round with a whirring of wings, 
 and settled, again darkening the spot they chose. 
 Now, as the sparrow eats from morning to night 
 without ceasing, say for about twelve hours, and 
 picks up a grain of corn in the twinkling of an 
 eye, it would be a moderate calculation to allow 
 this vast flock two sacks a week. Among them 
 there was one white sparrow his white wings 
 showed distinctly among the brown flock. In the 
 most remote country I never observed so great a 
 number of these birds at once ; the loss to the 
 farmers must be considerable. 
 
 There were a few fine days at the end of the 
 -198-
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS 
 
 month. One afternoon there rose up a flock of 
 rooks out of a large oak tree standing separate in 
 the midst of an arable field which was then at last 
 being ploughed. This oak is a favourite with the 
 rooks of the neighbourhood, and they have been 
 noticed to visit it more frequently than others. 
 Up they went, perhaps a hundred of them, rooks 
 and jackdaws together cawing and soaring round 
 and round till they reached a great height. At that 
 level, as if they had attained their ball-room, they 
 swept round and round on outstretched wings, de- 
 scribing circles and ovals in the air. Caw-caw ; 
 jack-juck-juck ! Thus dancing in slow measure, 
 they enjoyed the sunshine, full from their feast 
 of acorns. 
 
 Often as one was sailing on another approached 
 and interfered with his course when they wheeled 
 about each other. Soon one dived. Holding his 
 wings at full stretch and rigid, he dived headlong, 
 rotating as he fell till his beak appeared as if it 
 would be driven into the ground by the violence 
 of the descent. But within twenty feet of the 
 earth he recovered himself and rose again. Most 
 of these dives, for they all seemed to dive in turn, 
 were made over the favourite oak, and they did not 
 rise till they had gone down to its branches. Many 
 appeared about to throw themselves against the 
 boughs. 
 
 '99
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 251^ 
 
 Whether they wheeled round in circles, or 
 whether they dived, or simply sailed onward in the 
 air, they did it in pairs. As one was sweeping 
 round another came to him. As one sailed straight 
 on a second closely followed. After one had 
 dived the other soon followed, or waited till he had 
 come up and rejoined him. They danced and 
 played in couples as if they were paired already. 
 Some left the main body and steered right away 
 from their friends, but turned and came back, and 
 in about half an hour they all descended and 
 settled in the oak from which they had risen. A 
 loud cawing and jack-juck-jucking accompanied 
 this sally. 
 
 The same day it could be noticed how the 
 shadows of the elms cast by the bright sunshine on 
 the grass, which is singularly fresh and green this 
 autumn, had a velvety appearance. The dark 
 shadow on the fresh green looked soft as velvet. 
 The waters of the brook had become darker now ; 
 they flowed smooth, and at the brink reflected a 
 yellow spray of horse-chestnut. The sunshine 
 made the greenfinches call, the chaffinches utter 
 their notes, and a few thrushes sing ; but the latter 
 were soon silenced by frosts in the early morning, 
 which turned the fern to so deep a reddish brown 
 as to approach copper. 
 
 At the beginning of October a herd of cows and
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS 
 
 a small flock of sheep were turned into the clover 
 field to eat off the last crop, the preceding crops 
 havi-ng been mown. There were two or more 
 magpies among the sheep every day ; magpies, 
 starlings, rooks, crows, and wagtails follow sheep 
 about. The clover this year seems to have been 
 the best crop, though in the district alluded to it 
 has not been without an enemy. Early in July, 
 after the first crop had been mown a short time, 
 there came up a few dull yellowish-looking stalks 
 among it. These increased so much that one 
 field became yellowish all over, the stalks over- 
 topped the clover, and overcame its green. 
 
 It was the lesser broom rape, and hardly a clover 
 plant escaped this parasitic growth. By carefully 
 removing the earth with a pocket-knife the two 
 could be dug up together. From the roots of the 
 clover a slender filament passes underground to the 
 somewhat bulbous root of the broom rape, so that 
 although they stand apart and appear separate 
 plants, they are connected under the surface. 
 The stalk of the broom rape is clammy to touch, 
 and is an unwholesome greenish yellow, a dull un- 
 decided colour; if cut, it is nearly the same texture 
 throughout. There are numerous dull purplish 
 flowers at the top, but it has no leaves. It is not 
 a pleasant-looking plant a strange and unusual 
 growth.
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 2c~Z3g 
 
 One particular field was completely covered with 
 it, and scarcely a clover field in the neighbourhood 
 was perfectly free. But though drawing the sap 
 from the clover plants the latter grew so vigorously 
 that little damage was apparent. After a while the 
 broom rape disappeared, but the clover shot up 
 and afforded good forage. So late as the beginning 
 of October a few poppies flowered in it, their 
 bright scarlet contrasting vividly with the green 
 around, and the foliage above fast turning brown. 
 
 The flight of the jay much resembles that of 
 the magpie, the same jaunty, uncertain style-, so 
 that at a distance from the flight alone it would be 
 difficult to distinguish them, though in fact the 
 magpie's longer tail and white and black colours 
 always mark him. One morning in July, standing 
 for a moment in the shade beside a birch copse 
 which borders the same road, a jay flew up into 
 the tree immediately overhead, so near that the 
 peculiar shape of the head and bill and all the 
 plumage was visible. He looked down twice, and 
 then flew. Another morning there was a jay on 
 the ground, searching about, not five yards from 
 the road, nor twenty from a row of houses. It was 
 at the corner of a copse which adjoins them. If 
 not so constantly shot at the jay would be anything 
 but wild. 
 
 Notwithstanding all these magpies and jays, the
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS 
 
 partridges are numerous this year in the fields bor- 
 dering the highway, and which are not watched by 
 keepers. Thinking of the partridges makes me 
 notice the ant-hills. There were comparatively 
 few this season, but on the 4th of August, which 
 was a sunny day, I saw the inhabitants of a hill 
 beside the road bringing out the eggs into the sun- 
 shine. They could not do it fast enough ; some 
 ran out with eggs, and placed them on the top of 
 the little mound, and others seized eggs that had 
 been exposed sufficiently and hurried with them 
 into the interior. 
 
 Woody nightshade grows in quantities along this 
 road, and, apparently, all about the outskirts of the 
 town. There is not a hedge without it, and it 
 creeps over the mounds of earth at the sides of the 
 highways. Some fumitory appeared this summer 
 in a field of barley ; till then I had not observed 
 any for some time in that district. This plant, 
 once so common, but now nearly eradicated by cul- 
 ture, has a soft pleasant green. A cornflower, too, 
 flowered in another field, quite a treasure to find 
 where these beautiful blue flowers are so scarce. 
 The last day of August there was a fierce combat 
 on the footpath between a wasp and a brown moth. 
 They rolled over and struggled, now one, now the 
 other uppermost, and the wasp appeared to sting the 
 moth repeatedly. The moth, however, got away. 
 203
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 There are so many jackdaws about the suburbs 
 that, when a flock of rooks passes over, the caw- 
 cawing is quite equalled by the jack-jucking. The 
 daws are easily known by their lesser size and by 
 their flight, for they use their wings three times to 
 the rook's once. Numbers of daws build in the 
 knotholes and hollows of the horse-chestnut trees 
 in Bushey Park, and in the elms of the grounds 
 of Hampton Court. 
 
 To the left of the Diana Fountain there are a 
 number of hawthorn trees, which stand apart, and 
 are aged like those often found on village greens 
 and commons. Upon some of these hawthorns 
 mistletoe grows, not in such quantities as on the 
 apples in Gloucester and Hereford, but in small 
 pieces. 
 
 As late in the spring as May-day I have seen 
 some berries, then very large, on the mistletoe here. 
 Earlier in the year, when the adjoining fountain 
 was frozen and crowded with skaters, there were 
 a number of missel-thrushes in these hawthorns, 
 but they appeared to be eating the haws. At all 
 events, they left some of the mistletoe berries, 
 which were on the plant months later. 
 
 Just above Molesey Lock, in the meadows be- 
 side the towing-path, the blue meadow geranium, 
 or crane's-bill, flowers in large bunches in the 
 summer. It is one of the most beautiful flowers 
 204
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS 
 
 of the field, and after having lost sight of it for 
 some time, to see it again seemed to bring the old 
 familiar far-away fields close to London. Between 
 Hampton Court and Kingston the towing-path of 
 the Thames is bordered by a broad greensward, 
 sufficiently wide to be worth mowing. One July 
 I found a man at work here in advance of the 
 mowers, pulling up yarrow plants with might and 
 main. 
 
 The herb grew in such quantities that it was 
 necessary to remove it first, or the hay would be 
 too coarse. On conversing with him, he said that 
 a person came sometimes and took away a trap 
 load of yarrow ; the flowers were to be boiled and 
 mixed with cayenne pepper, as a remedy for cold 
 in the chest. In spring the dandelions here are 
 pulled in sackfuls, to be eaten as salad. These 
 things have fallen so much into disuse in the 
 country that country people are surprised to find 
 the herbalists flourishing round the great city of 
 progress. 
 
 The continued dry weather in the early summer 
 of the present year, which was so favourable to 
 partridges and game, was equally favourable to the 
 increase of several other kinds of birds, and among 
 these the jays. Their screeching is often heard 
 in this district, quite as often as it is in country 
 woodlands. One day in the spring I saw six all
 
 ~ JK NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 screeching and yelling together up and down a 
 hedge near the road. Now in October they are 
 plentiful. One flew across overhead with an acorn 
 in its beak, and perched in an elm beside the high- 
 way. He pecked at the acorn on the bough, then 
 glanced down, saw me, and fled, dropping the 
 acorn, which fell tap-tap from branch to branch till 
 it reached the mound. 
 
 Another jay actually flew up into a fir in the 
 green, or lawn, before a farm-house window, cross- 
 ing the road to do so. Four together were screech- 
 ing in an elm close to the road, and since then I 
 have seen others with acorns, while walking there. 
 Indeed, this autumn it is not possible to go far 
 without hearing their discordant and unmistakable 
 cry. They were never scarce here, but are un- 
 usually numerous this season, and in the scattered 
 trees of hedgerows their ways can be better ob- 
 served than in the close covert of copses and plan- 
 tations, where you hear them, but cannot see for 
 the thick fir boughs. 
 
 It is curious to note the number of creatures 
 to whom the oak furnishes food. The jays, for 
 instance, are now visiting them for acorns ; in 
 the summer they fluttered round the then green 
 branches for the chafers, and in the evenings the 
 fern owls or goatsuckers wheeled about the verge 
 for these and for moths. Rooks come to the oaks 
 206
 
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS 
 
 in crowds for the acorns; wood-pigeons are even 
 more fond of them, and from their crops quite a 
 handful may sometimes be taken when shot in the 
 trees. 
 
 They will carry off at once as many acorns as 
 old-fashioned economical farmers used to walk 
 about with in their pockets, " chucking " them one- 
 two, or three at a time to the pigs in the stye as a 
 bonne bouche and an encouragement to fatten well. 
 Never was there such a bird to eat as the wood- 
 pigeon. Pheasants roam out from the preserves 
 after the same fruit, and no arts can retain them 
 at acorn time. Swine are let run out about the 
 hegderows to help themselves. Mice pick up the 
 acorns that fall, and hide them for winter use, and 
 squirrels select the best. 
 
 If there is a decaying bough, or, more particu- 
 larly, one that has been sawn off, it slowly decays 
 into a hollow, and will remain in that state for years, 
 the resort of endless woodlice, snapped up by insect- 
 eating birds. Down from the branches in spring 
 there descend long, slender threads, like gossamer, 
 with a caterpillar at the end of each the insect- 
 eating birds decimate these. So that in various 
 ways the oaks give more food to the birds than 
 any other tree. Where there are oaks there are 
 sure to be plenty of birds. Beeches come next. 
 Is it possible that the severe frosts we sometimes 
 207
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 have split oak trees ? Some may be found split up 
 the trunk, and yet not apparently otherwise injured, 
 as they probably would be if it had been done 
 by lightning. Trees are said to burst in America 
 under frost, so that it is not impossible in this 
 country. 
 
 There is a young oak beside the highway which 
 in autumn was wreathed as artistically as could 
 have been done by hand. A black bryony plant 
 grew up round it, rising in a spiral. The heart- 
 shaped leaves have dropped from the bine, leaving 
 thick bunches of red and green berries clustering 
 about the greyish stem of the oak. 
 
 Every one must have noticed that some trees 
 have a much finer autumn tint than others. This, 
 it will often be found, is an annual occurrence, and 
 the same elm, or beech, or oak that has delighted 
 the eye with its hues this autumn, will do the 
 same next year, and excel its neighbours in colour. 
 Oaks and beeches, perhaps, are the best examples 
 of this, as they are also the trees that present the 
 most beautiful appearance in autumn. 
 
 There are oaks on villa lawns near London whose 
 glory of russet foliage in October or November is 
 not to be surpassed in the parks of the country. 
 There are two or three such oaks in Long Ditton. 
 All oaks do not become russet, or buff; some never 
 take those tints. An oak, for instance, not far 
 
 208
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS ^E^^^E^ 
 
 from those just mentioned never quite loses its 
 green ; it cannot be said, indeed, to remain green, 
 but there is a trace of it somewhere; the leaves 
 must, I suppose, be partly buff and partly green ; 
 and the mixture of these colours in bright sun- 
 shine produces a tint for which I know no accurate 
 term. 
 
 In the tops of the poplars, where most exposed, 
 the leaves stay till the last, those growing on the 
 trunk below disappearing long before those on the 
 spire, which bends to every blast. The keys of 
 the hornbeam come twirling down : the hornbeam 
 and the birch are characteristic trees of the London 
 landscape the latter reaches a great height and 
 never loses its beauty, for when devoid of leaves 
 the feathery spray-like branches only come into 
 view the more. 
 
 The abundant bird life is again demonstrated as 
 the evening approaches. Along the hedgerows, at 
 the corners of the copses, wherever there is the 
 least cover, so soon as the sun sinks the black- 
 birds announce their presence by their calls. Their 
 11 ching-chinging " sounds everywhere; they come 
 out on the projecting branches and cry, then fly 
 fifty yards further down the hedge, and cry again. 
 During the day they may not have been noticed, 
 scattered as they were under the bushes, but the 
 dusky shadows darkening the fields send them 
 14 209
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 to roost, and before finally retiring they " ching- 
 ching " to each other. 
 
 Then, almost immediately after the sun has gone 
 down, looking to the south-west the sky seen above 
 the trees (which hide the yellow sunset) becomes a 
 delicate violet. Soon a speck of light gleams faintly 
 through it the merest speck. The first appear- 
 ance of a star is very beautiful ; the actual moment 
 of first contact as it were of the ray with the eye 
 is always a surprise, however often you may have 
 enjoyed it, and notwithstanding that you are aware 
 it will happen. Where there was only the indefi- 
 nite violet before, the most intense gaze into which 
 could discover nothing, suddenly, as if at that mo- 
 ment born, the point of light arrives. 
 
 So glorious is the night that not all London, 
 with its glare and smoke, can smother the sky ; in 
 the midst of the gas, and the roar and the driv- 
 ing crowd, look up from the pavement, and there, 
 straight above, are the calm stars. I never forget 
 them, not even in the restless Strand ; they face 
 one coming down the hill of the Haymarket; in 
 Trafalgar Square, looking towards the high dark 
 structure of the House at Westminster, the clear 
 bright steel silver of the planet Jupiter shines un- 
 wearied, without sparkle or flicker. 
 
 Apart from the grand atmospheric changes caused 
 by a storm wave from the Atlantic, or an anti- 
 
 210
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS 
 
 cyclone, London produces its own sky. Put a 
 shepherd on St. Paul's, allow him three months 
 to get accustomed to the local appearances and the 
 deceptive smoke clouds, and he would then tell 
 what the weather of the day was going to be far 
 more efficiently than the very best instrument ever 
 yet invented. He would not always be right ; but 
 he would predict the local London weather with 
 far more accuracy than any one reading the returns 
 from the barometers at Valentia, Stornaway, Brest, 
 or Christiansand. 
 
 The reason is this the barometer foretells the 
 cloud in the sky, but cannot tell where it will burst. 
 The practised eye can judge with very consider- 
 able accuracy where the discharge will take place. 
 Some idea of what the local weather of London 
 will be for the next few hours may often be ob- 
 tained by observation on either of the bridges 
 Westminster, Waterloo, or London Bridge : there is 
 on the bridges something like a horizon, the best to 
 be got in the City itself, and the changes announce 
 themselves very clearly there. The difference in 
 the definition is really wonderful. 
 
 From Waterloo Bridge the golden cross on St. 
 Paul's and the dome at one time stand out as if 
 engraved upon the sky, clear and with a white as- 
 pect. At the same time, the brick of the old 
 buildings at the back of the Strand is red and
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 bright. The structures of the bridges appear light, 
 and do not press upon their arches. The yellow 
 straw stacked on the barges is bright, the copper- 
 tinted sails bright, the white wall of the Embank- 
 ment clear, and the lions' head distinct. Every 
 trace of colour, in short, is visible. 
 
 At another time the dome is murky, the cross 
 tarnished, the outline dim, the red brick dull, the 
 whiteness gone. In summer there is occasionally a 
 bluish haze about the distant buildings. These are 
 the same changes presented by the Downs in the 
 country, and betoken the state of the atmosphere 
 as clearly. The London atmosphere is, I should 
 fancy, quite as well adapted to the artist's uses as 
 the changeless glare of the Continent. The smoke 
 itself is not without its interest. 
 
 Sometimes upon Westminster Bridge at night the 
 scene is very striking. Vast rugged columns of 
 vapour rise up behind and over the towers of the 
 House, hanging with threatening aspect ; westward 
 the sky is nearly clear, with some relic of the 
 sunset glow : the river itself, black or illuminated 
 with the electric light, imparting a silvery blue tint, 
 crossed again with the red lamps of the steamers. 
 The aurora of dark vapour, streamers extending 
 from the thicker masses, slowly moves and yet does 
 not go away; it is just such a sky as a painter might 
 give to some tremendous historical event, a sky big
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS ^^ 
 
 with presage, gloom, tragedy. How bright and 
 clear, again, are the mornings in summer! I once 
 watched the sun rise on London Bridge, and never 
 forgot it. 
 
 In frosty weather, again, when the houses take 
 hard, stern tints, when the sky is clear over great 
 part of its extent, but with heavy thunderous looking 
 clouds in places clouds full of snow the sun 
 becomes of a red or orange hue, and reminds one 
 of the lines of Longfellow when Othere reached 
 the North Cape 
 
 " Round in a fiery ring 
 Went the great sun, oh King ! 
 With red and lurid light." 
 
 The redness of the winter sun in London is, indeed, 
 characteristic. 
 
 A sunset in winter or early spring floods the 
 streets with fiery glow. It comes, for instance, 
 down Piccadilly ; it is reflected from the smooth 
 varnished roofs of the endless carriages that roll to 
 and fro like the flicker of a mighty fire ; it streaks 
 the side of the street with rosiness. The faces of 
 those who are passing are lit up by it, all uncon- 
 scious as they are. The sky above London, indeed, 
 is as full of interest as above the hills. Lunar 
 rainbows occasionally occur ; two to my knowledge 
 were seen in the direction and apparently over the 
 metropolis recently. 
 
 -213
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 When a few minutes on the rail has carried you 
 outside the hub as it were of London, among the 
 quiet tree-skirted villas, the night reigns as com- 
 pletely as in the solitudes of the country. Perhaps 
 even more so, for the solitude is somehow more 
 apparent. The last theatre-goer has disappeared in- 
 side his hall door, the last dull roll of the brougham 
 with its happy laughing load, has died away 
 there is not so much as a single footfall. The 
 cropped holly hedges, the leafless birches, the 
 limes and acacias are still and distinct in the moon- 
 light. A few steps further out on the highway the 
 copse or plantation sleeps in utter silence. 
 
 But the tall elms are the most striking ; the 
 length of the branches and their height above 
 brings them across the light, so that they stand out 
 even more shapely than when in leaf. The blue 
 sky (not, of course, the blue of day), the white 
 moonlight, the bright stars larger at midnight 
 and brilliant, in despite of the moon, which cannot 
 overpower them in winter as she does in summer 
 evenings all are as beautiful as on the distant 
 hills of old. By night, at least, even here, in the 
 still silence, Heaven has her own way. 
 
 When the oak leaves first begin to turn buff", 
 
 and the first acorns drop, the redwings arrive, and 
 
 their " kuk-kuk " sounds in the hedges and the 
 
 shrubberies in the gardens of suburban villas. They 
 
 214
 
 MAGPIE FIELDS 
 
 seem to come very early to the neighbourhood of 
 London, and before the time of their appearance 
 in other districts. The note is heard before they 
 are seen ; the foliage of the shrubberies, still thick, 
 though changing colour, concealing them. Pres- 
 ently, when the trees are bare, with the exception 
 of a few oaks, they have disappeared, passing on 
 towards the west. The fieldfares, too, as I have 
 previously observed, do not stay. But missel- 
 thrushes seem more numerous near town than in 
 the country. 
 
 Every mild day in November the thrushes sing ; 
 there are meadows where one may be certain to 
 hear the song thrush. In the dip or valley at 
 Long Ditton there are several meadows Well tim- 
 bered with elm, which are the favourite resorts of 
 thrushes, and their song may be heard just there in 
 the depth of winter, when it would be possible to go 
 a long distance on the higher ground without hearing 
 one. If you hear the note of the song thrush 
 during frost it is sure to rain within a few hours ; it 
 is the first sign of the weather breaking up. 
 
 Another autumn sign is the packing (in a sense) 
 of the moorhens. During the summer the numer- 
 ous brooks and ponds about town are apparently 
 partially deserted by these birds ; at least they are 
 not to be seen by casual wayfarers. But directly 
 the winter gets colder they gather together in the 
 215
 
 g=^<K NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 old familiar places, and five or six, or even more, 
 come out at once to feed in the meadows or on the 
 lawns by the water. 
 
 Green plovers, or peewits, come in small flocks 
 to the fields recently ploughed ; sometimes scarcely 
 a gunshot from the walls of the villas. The tiny 
 golden-crested wrens are comparatively numerous 
 near town the heaths with their bramble thickets 
 doubtless suit them ; so soon as the leaves fall 
 they may often be seen.
 
 HERBS 
 
 AjREAT green book, whose broad pages 
 are illuminated with flowers, lies open 
 at the feet of Londoners. This vol- 
 ume, without further preface, lies ever 
 open at Kew Gardens, and is most easily accessible 
 from every part of the metropolis. A short walk 
 from Kew station brings the visitor to Cumberland 
 Gate. Resting for a moment upon the first seat 
 that presents itself, it is hard to realise that London 
 has but just been quitted. 
 
 Green foliage around, green grass beneath, a 
 pleasant sensation not silence, but absence of 
 jarring sound blue sky overhead, streaks and 
 patches of sunshine where the branches admit the 
 rays, wide, cool shadows, and clear, sweet atmos- 
 phere. High in a lime tree, hidden from view by 
 the leaves, a chiff-chaff sings continually, and from 
 the distance comes the softer note of a thrush. 
 On the close-mown grass a hedge-sparrow is search- 
 ing about within a few yards, and idle insects float 
 to and fro, visible against the background of a 
 dark yew tree they could not be seen in the
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 2EEI35: 
 
 glare of the sunshine. The peace of green things 
 reigns. 
 
 It is not necessary to go further in ; this spot at 
 the very entrance is equally calm and still, for 
 there is no margin of partial disturbance repose 
 begins at the edge. Perhaps it is best to be at once 
 content, and to move no further; to remain, like 
 the lime tree, in one spot, with the sunshine and 
 the sky, to close the eyes and listen to the thrush. 
 Something, however, urges exploration. 
 
 The majority of visitors naturally follow the 
 path, and go round into the general expanse ; but 
 I will turn from here sharply to the right, and 
 crossing the sward there is, after a few steps only, 
 another enclosing wall. Within this enclosure, 
 called the Herbaceous Ground, heedlessly passed 
 and perhaps never heard of by the thousands who 
 go to see the Palm Houses, lies to me the real and 
 truest interest of Kew. For here is a living dic- 
 tionary of English wild flowers. 
 
 The meadow and the cornfield, the river, the 
 mountain and the woodland, the seashore, the very 
 waste place by the roadside, each has sent its pe- 
 culiar representatives, and glancing for the moment, 
 at large, over the beds, noting their number and 
 extent, remembering that the specimens are not in 
 the mass but individual, the first conclusion is that 
 our own country is the true Flowery Land. 
 ' 218
 
 HERBS 
 
 But the immediate value of this wonderful gar- 
 den is in the clue it gives to the most ignorant, 
 enabling any one, no matter how unlearned, to 
 identify the flower that delighted him or her, it 
 may be, years ago, in far-away field or copse. 
 Walking up and down the green paths between 
 the beds, you are sure to come upon it presently, 
 with its scientific name duly attached and its 
 natural order labelled at the end of the patch. 
 
 Had I only known of this place in former days, 
 how gladly I would have walked the hundred miles 
 hither ! For the old folk, the aged men and 
 countrywomen, have for the most part forgotten, 
 if they ever knew, the plants and herbs in the 
 hedges they had frequented from childhood. Some 
 few, of course, they can tell you ; but the majority 
 are as unknown to them, except by sight, as the 
 ferns of New Zealand or the heaths of the Cape. 
 
 Since books came about, since the railways and 
 science destroyed superstition, the lore of herbs 
 has in great measure decayed and been lost. The 
 names of many of the commonest herbs are quite 
 forgotten they are weeds, and nothing more. 
 But here these things are preserved ; in London, 
 the centre of civilisation and science, is a garden 
 which restores the ancient knowledge of the monks 
 and the witches of the villages. 
 
 Thus, on entering to-day, the first plant which
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON X= 
 
 I observed is hellebore a not very common wild 
 herb perhaps, but found in places, and a tradition- 
 ary use of which is still talked of in the country, 
 a use which I must forbear to mention. What 
 would the sturdy mowers whom I once watched 
 cutting their way steadily through the tall grass in 
 June say, could they see here the black knapweed 
 cultivated as a garden treasure ? Its hard woody 
 head with purple florets lifted high above the 
 ground, was greatly disliked by them, as, too, the 
 blue scabious, and indeed most other flowers. 
 The stalks of such plants were so much harder to 
 mow than the grass. 
 
 Feathery yarrow sprays, which spring up by the 
 wayside and wherever the foot of man passes, as 
 at the gateway, are here. White and lilac-tinted 
 yarrow flowers grow so thickly along the roads 
 round London as often to form a border between 
 the footpath and the bushes of the hedge. Dan- 
 delions lift their yellow heads, classified and culti- 
 vated the same dandelions whose brilliant colour 
 is admired and imitated by artists, and whose pre- 
 pared roots are still in use in country places to 
 improve the flavour of coffee. 
 
 Groundsel, despised groundsel the weed which 
 cumbers the garden patch, and is hastily destroyed 
 is here fully recognised. These harebells they 
 have flowered a little earlier than in their wild
 
 HERBS 
 
 state how many scenes they recall to memory ! 
 We found them on the tops of the glorious Downs 
 when the wheat was ripe in the plains and the 
 earth beneath seemed all golden. Some, too, con- 
 cealed themselves on the pastures behind those 
 bunches of tough grass the cattle left untouched. 
 And even in cold November, when the mist lifted, 
 while the dewdrops clustered thickly on the grass, 
 one or two hung their heads under the furze. 
 
 Hawkweeds, which many mistake for dande- 
 lions ; cowslips, in seed now, and primroses, with 
 foreign primulas around them and enclosed by 
 small hurdles, foxgloves, some with white and 
 some with red flowers, all these have their story 
 and are intensely English. Rough-leaved comfrey 
 of the side of the river and brook, one species 
 of which is so much talked of as better forage than 
 grass, is here, its bells opening. 
 
 Borage, whose leaves float in the claret-cup 
 ladled out to thirsty travellers at the London rail- 
 way stations in the hot weather ; knotted figwort, 
 common in ditches; Aaron's Rod, found in old gar- 
 dens ; lovely veronicas ; mints and calamints whose 
 leaves, if touched, scent the fingers, and which 
 grow everywhere by cornfield and hedgerow. 
 
 This bunch of wild thyme once again calls up 
 a vision of the Downs ; it is not so thick and 
 strong, and it lacks that cushion of herbage which
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 25E 
 
 so often marks the site of its growth on the noble 
 slopes of the hills, and along the sward-grown fosse 
 of ancient earthworks, but it is wild thyme, and 
 that is enough. From this bed of varieties of 
 thyme there rises up a pleasant odour which attracts 
 the bees. Bees and humble-bees, indeed, buzz 
 everywhere, but they are much too busily occupied 
 to notice you or me. 
 
 Is there any difference in the taste of London 
 honey and in that of the country ? From the 
 immense quantity of garden flowers about the 
 metropolis it would seem possible for a distinct 
 flavour, not perhaps preferable, to be imparted. 
 Lavender, of which old housewives were so fond, 
 and which is still the best of preservatives, conies 
 next, and self-heal is just coming out in flower; 
 the reapers have, I believe, forgotten its former use 
 in curing the gashes sometimes inflicted by the 
 reaphook. The reaping-machine has banished 
 such memories from the stubble. Nightshades 
 border on the potato, the flowers of both almost 
 exactly alike ; poison and food growing side by side 
 and of the same species. 
 
 There are tales still told in the villages of this 
 deadly and enchanted mandragora ; the lads some- 
 times go to the churchyards to search for it. 
 Plantains and docks, wild spurge, hops climbing 
 up a dead fir tree, a well-chosen pole for them
 
 H ERBS 
 
 nothing is omitted. Even the silver weed, the 
 dusty-looking foliage which is thrust aside as you 
 walk on the footpath by the road, is here labelled 
 with truth as " cosmopolitan " of habit. 
 
 Bird's-foot lotus, another Downside plant, lights 
 up the stones put to represent rockwork with its 
 yellow. Saxifrage, and stonecrop, and house-leek 
 are here in variety. Buttercups occupy a whole 
 patch a little garden to themselves. What 
 would the haymakers say to such a sight ? Little, 
 too, does the mower reck of the number, variety, 
 and beauty of the grasses in a single armful of 
 swathe, such as he gathers up to cover his jar 
 of ale with and keep it cool by the hedge. The 
 bennets, the flower of the grass, on their tall stalks, 
 go down in numbers as countless as the sand of 
 the seashore before his scythe. 
 
 But here the bennets are watched and tended, 
 the weeds removed from around them, and all the 
 grasses of the field cultivated as affectionately as 
 the finest rose. There is something cool and 
 pleasant in this green after the colours of the herbs 
 in flower, though each grass is but a bunch, yet it 
 has with it something of the sweetness of the 
 meadows by the brooks. Juncus, the rush, is here, 
 a sign often welcome to cattle, for they know that 
 water must be near; the bunch is cut down, and 
 the white pith shows, but it will speedily be up
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 again ; horse-tails, too, so thick in marshy places 
 one small species is abundant in the ploughed 
 fields of Surrey, and must be a great trouble to the 
 farmers, for the land is sometimes quite hidden 
 by it. 
 
 In the adjoining water tank are the principal 
 flowers and plants which flourish in brook, river, 
 and pond. This yellow iris flowers in many 
 streams about London, and the water parsnip's 
 pale green foliage waves at the very bottom, for it 
 will grow with the current right over it as well as 
 at the side. Water plantain grows in every pond 
 near the metropolis ; there is some j.ust outside 
 these gardens, in a wet ha-ha. 
 
 The huge water docks in the centre here flourish 
 at the verge of the adjacent Thames ; the marsh 
 marigold, now in seed, blooms in April in the damp 
 furrows of meadows close up to town. But in 
 this flower-pot, sunk so as to be in the water, and 
 yet so that the rim may prevent it from spreading 
 and coating the entire tank with green, is the 
 strangest of all, actually duckweed. The still 
 ponds, always found close to cattle yards, are in 
 summer green from end to end with this weed. I 
 recommend all country folk who come up to town 
 in summer time to run down here just to see duck- 
 weed cultivated once in their lives. 
 
 In front of an ivy-grown museum there is a 
 
 Z24
 
 HERBS 
 
 kind of bowling-green, sunk somewhat below the 
 general surface, where in similar beds may be 
 found the most of those curious old herbs which 
 for seasoning or salad, or some use or superstition, 
 were famous in ancient English households. Not 
 one of them but has its associations. " There 's 
 rue for you, " to begin with ; we all know who 
 that herb is for ever connected with. 
 
 There is marjoram and sage, clary, spearmint, 
 peppermint, salsify, elecampane, tansy, asafoetida, 
 coriander, angelica, caper spurge, lamb's lettuce, and 
 sorrel. Mugwort, southernwood, and wormwood 
 are still to be found in old gardens ; they stand 
 here side by side. Monkshood, horehound, hen- 
 bane, vervain (good against the spells of witches), 
 feverfew, dog's mercury, bistort, woad, and so on, 
 all seem like relics of the days of black-letter books. 
 All the while greenfinches are singing happily in 
 the trees without the wall. 
 
 This is but the briefest resume ; for many long 
 summer afternoons would be needed even to glance 
 at all the wild flowers that bloom in June. Then 
 you must come once at least a month, from March 
 to September, as the flowers succeed each other, 
 to read the place aright. It is an index to every 
 meadow and cornfield, wood, heath, and river in 
 the country, and by means of the plants of the 
 same species to the flowers of the world. There-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 fore the Herbaceous Ground seems to me a place 
 that should on no account be passed by. And 
 the next place is the Wilderness that is, the 
 Forest. 
 
 On the way thither an old-fashioned yew hedge 
 may be seen round about a vast glasshouse. Out- 
 side, on the sward, there are fewer wild flowers 
 growing wild than might perhaps be expected, 
 owing in some degree, no doubt, to the frequent 
 mowing, except under the trees, where again the 
 constant shadow does not suit all. By the ponds, 
 in the midst of trees, and near the river, there is a 
 little grass, however, left to itself, in which in June 
 there were some bird's-foot lotus, veronica, hawk- 
 weeds, ox-eye daisy, knapweed, and buttercups. 
 Standing by these ponds, I heard a cuckoo call, 
 and saw a rook sail over them ; there was no other 
 sound but that of the birds and the merry laugh of 
 children rolling down the slopes. 
 
 The midsummer hum was audible above ; the 
 honeydew glistened on the leaves of the limes. 
 There is a sense of repose in the mere aspect of 
 large trees in groups and masses of quiet foliage. 
 Their breadth of form steadies the roving eye ; the 
 rounded slopes, the wide sweeping outline of these 
 hills of green boughs, induce an inclination, like 
 them, to rest. To recline upon the grass and with 
 half-closed eyes gaze upon them is enough. 
 
 Z26
 
 HERBS 
 
 The delicious silence is not the silence of night, 
 of lifelessness ; it is the lack of jarring, mechanical 
 noise ; it is not silence, but the sound of leaf and 
 grass gently stroked by the soft and tender touch of 
 the summer air. It is the sound of happy finches, 
 of the slow buzz of humble-bees, of the occasional 
 splash of a fish, or the call of a moorhen. Invis- 
 ible in the brilliant beams above, vast legions of 
 insects crowd the sky, but the product of their 
 restless motion is a slumberous hum. , 
 
 These sounds are the real silence; just as a tiny 
 ripple of the water and the swinging of the shadows 
 as the boughs stoop are the real stillness. If they 
 were absent, if it was the soundlessness and still- 
 ness of stone, the mind would crave for something. 
 But these fill and content it. Thus reclining, the 
 storm and stress of life dissolve there is no 
 thought, no care, no desire. Somewhat of the 
 Nirvana of the earth beneath the earth which 
 for ever produces and receives back again and yet 
 is for ever at rest enters into and soothes the 
 heart. 
 
 The time slips by, a rook emerges from yonder 
 mass of foliage, and idly floats across, and is hidden 
 in another tree. A whitethroat rises from a bush 
 and nervously discourses, gesticulating with wings 
 and tail, for a few moments. But this is not possible 
 for long; the immense magnetism of London, as I
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 2E~ 
 
 have said before, is too near. There comes the 
 quick short beat of a steam launch shooting down 
 the river hard by, and the dream is over. I rise 
 and go on again. 
 
 Already one of the willows planted about the 
 pond is showing the yellow leaf, before midsummer. 
 It reminds me of the inevitable autumn. In 
 October these ponds, now apparently deserted, will 
 be full of moorhens. I have seen and heard but 
 one to-day, but as the autumn comes on they will 
 be here again, feeding about the island, or search- 
 ing on the sward by the shore. Then, too, among 
 the beeches that lead from hence towards the fanci- 
 ful pagoda the squirrels will be busy. There are 
 numbers of them, and their motions may be watched 
 with ease. I turn down by the river; in the ditch 
 at the foot of the ha-ha wall is plenty of duckweed, 
 the Lemna of the tank. 
 
 A little distance away, and almost on the shore, 
 as it seems, of the Thames, is a really noble horse- 
 chestnut, whose boughs, untouched by cattle, come 
 sweeping down to the ground, and then, continuing, 
 seem to lie on and extend themselves along it, 
 yards beyond their contact. Underneath, it re- 
 minds one of sketches of encampments in Hindo- 
 stan beneath banyan trees, where white tent cloths 
 are stretched from branch to branch. Tent cloths 
 might be stretched here in similar manner, and 
 228
 
 HERBS 
 
 would enclose a goodly space. Or in the boughs 
 above, a savage's tree hut might be built, and yet 
 scarcely be seen. 
 
 My roaming and uncertain steps next bring me 
 under a plane, and I am forced to admire it ; I 
 do not like planes, but this is so straight of trunk, 
 so vast of size, and so immense of height that I 
 cannot choose but look up into it. A jackdaw, 
 perched on an upper bough, makes off as I glance 
 up. But the trees constantly afford unexpected 
 pleasure ; you wander among the timber of the 
 world, now under the shadow of the trees which 
 the Red Indian haunts, now by those which grow 
 on Himalayan slopes. The interest lies in the 
 fact that they are trees, not shrubs or mere sap- 
 lings, but timber trees which cast a broad shadow. 
 
 So great is their variety and number that it is 
 not always easy to find an oak or an elm ; there 
 are plenty, but they are often lost in the foreign 
 forest. Yet every English shrub and bush is here; 
 the hawthorn, the dogwood, the wayfaring tree, 
 gorse and broom, and here is a round plot of 
 heather. Weary at last, I rest again near the 
 Herbaceous Ground, as the sun declines and the 
 shadows lengthen. 
 
 As evening draws on, the whistling of black- 
 birds and the song of thrushes seem to come from 
 everywhere around. The trees are full of them. 
 229
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 Every few moments a blackbird passes over, flying 
 at some height, from the villa gardens and the or- 
 chards without. The song increases ; the mellow 
 whistling is without intermission ; but the shadow 
 has nearly reached the wall, and I must go. 
 
 230
 
 TREES ABOUT TOWN 
 
 'UST outside London there is a circle of fine, 
 large houses, each standing in its own 
 grounds, highly rented, and furnished with 
 every convenience money can supply. If 
 any one will look at the trees and shrubs growing 
 in the grounds about such a house, chosen at ran- 
 dom for an example, and make a list of them, he 
 may then go round the entire circumference of 
 Greater London, mile after mile, many days' 
 journey, and find the list ceaselessly repeated. 
 
 There are acacias, sumachs, cedar deodaras, 
 araucarias, laurels, planes, beds of rhododendrons, 
 and so on. There are various other foreign shrubs 
 and trees whose names have not become familiar, 
 and then the next grounds contain exactly the 
 same, somewhat differently arranged. Had they 
 all been planted by Act of Parliament, the result 
 could scarcely have been more uniform. 
 
 If, again, search were made in these enclosures 
 for English trees and English shrubs, it would be 
 found that none have been introduced. The Eng- 
 lish trees, timber trees, that are there, grew before 
 231
 
 E^K NATURE NEAR LONDON SE 
 
 the house was built ; for the rest, the products 
 of English woods and hedgerows have been care- 
 fully excluded. The law is, " Plant planes, lau- 
 rels, and rhododendrons ; root up everything natural 
 to this country." 
 
 To those who have any affection for our own 
 woodlands this is a pitiful spectacle, produced, too, 
 by the expenditure of large sums of money. Will 
 no one break through the practice, and try the effect 
 of English trees ? There is no lack of them, and 
 they far excel anything yet imported in beauty and 
 grandeur. 
 
 Though such suburban grounds mimic the isola- 
 tion and retirement of ancient country houses sur- 
 rounded with parks, the distinctive feature of the 
 ancient houses is omitted. There are no massed 
 bodies, as it were, of our own trees to give a sub- 
 stance to the view. Are young oaks ever seen in 
 those grounds so often described as park-like ? 
 Some time since it was customary for the builder 
 to carefully cut down every piece of timber on the 
 property before putting in the foundations. 
 
 Fortunately, the influence of a better taste now 
 preserves such trees as chance to be growing on 
 the site at the moment it is purchased. These 
 remain, but no others are planted. A young oak 
 is not to be seen. The oaks that are there drop 
 their acorns in vain, for if one takes root it is at 
 232
 
 TREES ABOUT TOWN 
 
 once cut off; it would spoil the laurels. It is the 
 same with elms ; the old elms are decaying, and no 
 successors are provided. 
 
 As for ash, it is doubtful if a young ash is any- 
 where to be found ; if so, it is an accident. The 
 ash is even rarer than the rest. In their places 
 are put more laurels, cedar deodaras, various ever- 
 greens, rhododendrons, planes. How tame and 
 insignificant are these compared with the oak ! 
 Thrice a year the oaks become beautiful in a 
 different way. 
 
 In spring the opening buds give the tree a ruddy 
 hue; in summer the great head of green is not to 
 be surpassed ; in autumn, with the falling leaf and 
 acorn, they appear buff and brown. The nobility 
 of the oak casts the pitiful laurel into utter insig- 
 nificance. With elms it is the same ; they are red- 
 dish with flower and bud very early in the year, 
 the fresh leaf is a tender green ; in autumn they are 
 sometimes one mass of yellow. 
 
 Ashes change from almost black to a light green, 
 then a deeper green, and again light green and yellow. 
 Where is the foreign evergreen in the competition ? 
 Put side by side, competition is out of the question : 
 you have only to get an artist to paint the oak in 
 its three phases to see this. There is less to be said 
 against the deodara than the rest, as it is a graceful 
 tree ; but it is not English in any sense. 
 _2 33 _
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON SE 
 
 The point, however, is that the foreigners oust 
 the English altogether. Let the cedar and the 
 laurel, and the whole host of invading evergreens, be 
 put aside by themselves, in a separate and detached 
 shrubbery, maintained for the purpose of exhibiting 
 strange growths. Let them not crowd the lovely 
 English trees out of the place. Planes are much 
 planted now, with ill effect ; the blotches where 
 the bark peels, the leaves which lie on the sward 
 like brown leather, the branches wide apart and 
 giving no shelter to birds in short, the whole 
 ensemble of the plane is unfit for our country. 
 
 It was selected for London plantations, as the 
 Thames Embankment, because its peeling bark 
 was believed to protect it against the deposit of 
 sooty particles, and because it grows quickly. For 
 use in London itself it may be preferable : for 
 semi-country seats, as the modern houses sur- 
 rounded with their own grounds assume to be, it 
 is unsightly. It has no association. No one has 
 seen a plane in a hedgerow, or a wood, or a copse. 
 There are no fragments of English history clinging 
 to it as there are to the oak. 
 
 If trees of the plane class be desirable, sycamores 
 may be planted, as they have in a measure become 
 acclimatised. If trees that grow fast are required, 
 there are limes and horse-chestnuts ; the lime will 
 run a race with any tree. The lime, too, has a
 
 TREES ABOUT TOWN 
 
 pale yellow blossom, to which bees resort in num- 
 bers, making a pleasant hum, which seems the 
 natural accompaniment of summer sunshine. Its 
 leaves are put forth early. 
 
 Horse-chestnuts, too, grow quickly and without 
 any attention, the bloom is familiar, and acknowl- 
 edged to be fine, and in autumn the large sprays 
 of leaves take orange and even scarlet tints. The 
 plane is not to be mentioned beside either of them. 
 Other trees as well as the plane would have flour- 
 ished on the Thames Embankment, in consequence 
 of the current of fresh air caused by the river. 
 Imagine the Embankment with double rows of 
 oaks, elms, or beeches ; or, if not, even with limes 
 or horse-chestnuts ! To these certainly birds would 
 have resorted possibly rooks, which do not fear 
 cities. On such a site the experiment would have 
 been worth making. 
 
 If in the semi-country seats fast-growing trees 
 are needed, there are, as I have observed, the lime 
 and horse-chestnut ; and if more variety be desired, 
 add the Spanish chestnut and the walnut. The 
 Spanish chestnut is a very fine tree ; the walnut, 
 it is true, grows slowly. If as many beeches as 
 cedar deodaras and laurels and planes were planted 
 in these grounds, in due course of time the tap of 
 the woodpecker would be heard : a sound truly 
 
 worth ten thousand laurels. At Kew, far closer 
 
 235
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON = 
 
 to town than many of the semi-country seats are 
 now, all our trees flourish in perfection. 
 
 Hardy birches, too, will grow in thin soil. Just 
 compare the delicate drooping boughs of birch 
 they could not have been more delicate if sketched 
 with a pencil compare these with the gaunt 
 planes ! 
 
 Of all the foreign shrubs that have been brought 
 to these shores, there is not one that presents us 
 with so beautiful a spectacle as the bloom of the 
 common old English hawthorn in May. The mass 
 of blossom, the pleasant fragrance, its divided and 
 elegant leaf, place it far above any of the impor- 
 tations. Besides which, the traditions and associa- 
 tions of the May give it a human interest. 
 
 The hawthorn is a part of natural English life 
 country life. It stands side by side with the 
 Englishman, as the palm tree is pictured side by 
 side with the Arab. You cannot pick up an old 
 play, or book of the time when old English life 
 was in the prime, without finding some reference 
 to the hawthorn. There is nothing of this in the 
 laurel, or any shrub whatever that may be thrust 
 in with a ticket to tell you its name; it has a 
 ticket because it has no interest, or else you would 
 know it. 
 
 For use there is nothing like hawthorn ; it 
 will trim into a thick hedge, defending the en- 
 -236-
 
 yr~-^x TREES ABOUT TOWN 
 
 closure from trespassers, and warding off the bitter 
 winds ; or it will grow into a tree. Again, the 
 old hedge-crab the common, despised crab-apple 
 in spring is covered with blossom, such a mass 
 of blossom that it may be distinguished a mile. 
 Did any one ever see a plane or a laurel look like 
 that ? 
 
 How pleasant, too, to see the clear white flower 
 of the blackthorn come out in the midst of the 
 bitter easterly breezes ! It is like a white hand- 
 kerchief beckoning to the sun to come. There 
 will not be much more frost ; if the wind is bitter 
 to-day, the sun is rapidly gaining power. Prob- 
 ably, if a blackthorn bush were by any chance dis- 
 covered in the semi-parks or enclosures alluded to, 
 it would at once be rooted out as an accursed 
 thing. The very brambles are superior ; there is 
 the flower, the sweet berry, and afterwards the 
 crimson leaves three things in succession. 
 
 What can the world produce equal to the June 
 rose ? The common briar, the commonest of all, 
 offers a flower which, whether in itself, or the 
 moment of its appearance at the juncture of all 
 sweet summer things, or its history and associations, 
 is not to be approached by anything a millionaire 
 could purchase. The labourer casually gathers it 
 as he goes to his work in the field, and yet none 
 of the rich families whose names are synonymous 
 z 37
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 with wealth can get anything to equal it if they 
 ransack the earth. 
 
 After these, fill every nook and corner with 
 hazel, and make filbert walks. Up and down 
 such walks men strolled with rapiers by their sides 
 while our admirals were hammering at the Span- 
 iards with culverin and demi-cannon, and looked 
 at the sundial and adjourned for a game at bowls, 
 wishing that they only had a chance to bowl shot 
 instead of peaceful wood. Fill in the corners 
 with nut trees, then, and make filbert walks. All 
 these are like old story books, and the old stories 
 are always best. 
 
 Still, there are others for variety, as the wild 
 guelder rose, which produces heavy bunches of red 
 berries; dogwood, whose leaves when frost-touched 
 take deep colours ; barberry, yielding a pleasantly 
 acid fruit j the wayfaring tree ; not even forgetting 
 the elder, but putting it at the outside, because, 
 though flowering, the scent is heavy, and because 
 the elder was believed of old time to possess some 
 of the virtue now attributed to the blue gum, and 
 to neutralise malaria by its own odour. 
 
 For colour add the wild broom and some furze. 
 Those who have seen broom in full flower, golden 
 to the tip of every slender bough, cannot need 
 any persuasion, surely, to introduce it. Furze is 
 specked with yellow when the skies are dark and 
 _ 23 8_
 
 TREES ABOUT TOWN 
 
 storms sweep around, besides its prime display. 
 Let wild ctematis climb wherever it will. Then 
 laurels may come after these, put somewhere by 
 themselves, with their thick changeless leaves, un- 
 pleasant to the touch; no one ever gathers a spray. 
 
 Rhododendrons it is unkind to attack, for in 
 themselves they afford a rich flower. It is not the 
 rhododendron, but the abuse of it, which must be 
 protested against. Whether the soil suits or not 
 and, for the most part, it does not suit rho- 
 dodendrons are thrust in everywhere. Just walk 
 in amongst them behind the show and look 
 at the spindly, crooked stems, straggling how they 
 may, and then look at the earth under them, where 
 not a weed even will grow. The rhododendron 
 is admirable in its place, but it is often overdone 
 and a failure, and has no right to exclude those 
 shrubs that are fitter. Most of the foreign shrubs 
 about these semi-country seats look exactly like 
 the stiff and painted little wooden trees that are 
 sold for children's toys, and, like the toys, are the 
 same colour all the year round. 
 
 Now, if you enter a copse in spring the eye is 
 delighted with cowslips on the banks where the 
 sunlight comes, with bluebells, or earlier with 
 anemones and violets, while later the ferns rise. 
 But enter the semi-parks of the semi-country seat, 
 with its affected assumption of countryness, and 
 239
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON sr 
 
 there is not one of these. The fern is actually 
 purposely eradicated just think ! Purposely ! 
 Though indeed they would not grow, one would 
 think, under rhododendrons and laurels, cold- 
 blooded laurels. They will grow under hawthorn, 
 ash, or beside the bramble bushes. 
 
 If there chance to be a little pond or " fountain," 
 there is no such thing as a reed, or a flag, or a 
 rush. How the rushes would be hastily hauled 
 out and hurled away with execrations ! 
 
 Besides the greater beauty of English trees, 
 shrubs, and plants, they also attract the birds, 
 without which the grandest plantation is a vacancy, 
 and another interest, too, arises from watching the 
 progress of their growth and the advance of the 
 season. Our own trees and shrubs literally keep 
 pace with the stars which shine in our northern 
 skies. An astronomical floral almanack might 
 almost be constructed, showing how, as the con- 
 stellations marched on by night, the buds and 
 leaves and flowers appeared by day. 
 
 The lower that brilliant Sirius sinks in the 
 western sky after ruling the winter heavens, and 
 the higher that red Arcturus rises, so the buds 
 thicken, open, and bloom. When the Pleiades 
 begin to rise in the early evening, the leaves are 
 turning colour, and the seed vessels of the flowers 
 take the place of the petals. The coincidences of 
 240
 
 TREES ABOUT TOWN 
 
 floral and bird life, and of these with the move- 
 ments of the heavens, impart a sense of breadth to 
 their observation. 
 
 It is not only the violet or the anemone, there 
 are the birds coming from immense distances to 
 enjoy the summer with us ; there are the stars 
 appearing in succession, so that the most distant 
 of objects seems brought into connection with the 
 nearest, and the world is made one. The sharp dis- 
 tinction, the line artificially drawn between things, 
 quite disappears when they are thus associated. 
 
 Birds, as just remarked, are attracted by our 
 own trees and shrubs. Oaks are favourites with 
 rooks and wood-pigeons ; blackbirds whistle in 
 them in spring ; if there is a pheasant about in 
 autumn he is sure to come under the oak ; jays 
 visit them. Elms are resorted to by most of the 
 larger birds. Ash plantations attract wood-pigeons 
 and turtledoves. Thrushes are fond of the ash, 
 and sing much on its boughs. The beech is the 
 woodpecker's tree so soon as it grows old birch 
 one of the missel-thrush's. 
 
 In blackthorn the long-tailed tit builds the domed 
 nest every one admires. Under the cover of 
 brambles white-throats build. Nightingales love 
 hawthorn, and so does every bird. Plant haw- 
 thorn, and almost every bird will come to it, from 
 the wood-pigeon down to the wren. Do not clear 
 
 16 241
 
 ^^^ NATURE NEAR LONDON SH-3K 
 
 away the fallen branches and brown leaves, sweep- 
 ing the plantation as if it were the floor of a ball- 
 room, for it is just the tangle and the wilderness 
 that brings the birds, and they like the disarray. 
 
 If evergreens are wanted, there are the yew, the 
 box, and holly all three well sanctioned by old 
 custom. Thrushes will come for the yew berries, 
 and birds are fond of building in the thick cover 
 of high box hedges. Notwithstanding the prickly 
 leaves, they slip in and out of the holly easily. A 
 few bunches of rushes and sedges, with some 
 weeds and aquatic grasses, allowed to grow about 
 a pond, will presently bring moorhens. Bare 
 stones perhaps concrete will bring nothing. 
 
 If a bough falls into the water; let it stay ; 
 sparrows will perch on it to drink. If a sandy 
 drinking-place can be made for them the number 
 of birds that will come in the course of the day 
 will be surprising. 
 
 Kind-hearted people, when winter is approaching, 
 should have two posts sunk in their grounds, with 
 planks across at the top ; a raised platform with the 
 edges projecting beyond the posts, so that cats can- 
 not climb up, and of course higher than a cat can 
 spring. The crumbs cast out upon this platform 
 would gather crowds of birds ; they will come to 
 feel at home, and in spring time will return to 
 build and sing.
 
 TO BRIGHTON 
 
 THE smooth express to Brighton has 
 scarcely, as it seems, left the metrop- 
 olis when the banks of the railway 
 become coloured with wild flowers. 
 Seen for a moment in swiftly passing, they border 
 the line like a continuous garden. Driven from 
 the fields by plough and hoe, cast out from the 
 pleasure-grounds of modern houses, pulled up and 
 hurled over the wall to wither as accursed things, 
 they have taken refuge on the embankment and 
 the cutting. 
 
 There they can flourish and ripen their seeds, 
 little harassed even by the scythe and never by 
 grazing cattle. So it happens that, extremes meet- 
 ing, the wild flower, with its old-world associations, 
 often grows most freely within a few feet of the 
 wheels of the locomotive. Purple heathbells gleam 
 from shrub-like bunches dotted along the slope; 
 purple knapweeds lower down in the grass ; blue 
 scabious, yellow hawkweeds where the soil is thin- 
 ner, and harebells on the very summit : these are 
 but a few upon which the eye lights while gliding by, 
 243
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON ss 
 
 Glossy thistledown, heedless whither it goes, 
 comes in at the open window. Between thickets 
 of broom there is a glimpse down into a meadow 
 shadowed by the trees of a wood. It is bordered 
 with the cool green of brake fern, from which a 
 rabbit has come forth to feed, and a pheasant strolls 
 along with a mind, perhaps, to the barley yonder. 
 Or a fox-glove lifts its purple spire ; or woodbine 
 crowns the bushes. The sickle has gone over, 
 and the poppies which grew so thick a while ago 
 in the corn no longer glow like a scarlet cloak 
 thrown on the ground. But red spots in waste 
 places and by the ways are where they have escaped 
 the steel. 
 
 A wood-pigeon keeps pace with the train his 
 vigorous pinions can race against an engine, but 
 cannot elude the hawk. He stops presently among 
 the trees. How pleasant it is from the height of 
 the embankment to look down upon the tops of the 
 oaks ! The stubbles stretch away, crossed with 
 bands of green roots where the partridges are hid- 
 ing. Among flags and weeds the moorhens feed 
 fearlessly as we roll over the stream : then comes 
 a cutting, and more heath and hawkweed, harebell, 
 and bramble bushes red with unripe berries. 
 
 Flowers grow high up the sides of the quarries ; 
 flowers cling to the dry, crumbling chalk of the 
 cliftlike cutting; flowers bloom on the verge above, 
 244
 
 2EE3KS?E38: TO BRIGHTON 
 
 against the line of the sky, and over the dark arch 
 of the tunnel. This, it is true, is summer; but it 
 is the same in spring. Before a dandelion has 
 shown in the meadow, the banks of the railway are 
 yellow with coltsfoot. After a time the gorse 
 flowers everywhere along them ; but the golden 
 broom overtops all, perfect thickets of broom 
 glowing in the sunlight. 
 
 Presently the copses are azure with bluebells, 
 among which the brake is thrusting itself up ; 
 others, again, are red with ragged robins, and the 
 fields adjacent fill the eye with the gaudy glare of 
 yellow charlock. The note of the cuckoo sounds 
 above the rushing of the train, and the larks may 
 be seen, if not heard, rising high over the wheat. 
 Some birds, indeed, find the bushes by the railway 
 the quietest place in which to build their nests. 
 
 Butcher-birds or shrikes are frequently found on 
 the telegraph wires ; from that elevation they 
 pounce down on their prey, and return again to 
 the wire. There were two pairs of shrikes using 
 the telegraph wires for this purpose one spring 
 only a short distance beyond noisy Clapham Junc- 
 tion. Another pair came back several seasons to a 
 particular part of the wires, near a bridge, and I 
 have seen a hawk perched on the wire equally near 
 London. 
 
 The haze hangs over the wide, dark plain, 
 245
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 which, soon after passing Redhill, stretches away 
 on the right. It seems to us in the train to extend 
 from the foot of a great bluff there to the first 
 rampart of the still distant South Downs. In the 
 evening that haze will be changed to a flood of 
 purple light veiling the horizon. Fitful glances 
 at the newspaper or the novel pass the time ; but 
 now I can read no longer, for I know, without 
 any marks or tangible evidence, that the hills are 
 drawing near. There is always hope in the hills. 
 
 The dust of London fills the eyes and blurs the 
 vision ; but it penetrates deeper than that. There 
 is a dust that chokes the spirit, and it is this that 
 makes the streets so long, the stones so stony, the 
 desk so wooden ; the very rustiness of the iron 
 railings about the offices sets the teeth on edge, the 
 sooty blackened walls (yet without shadow) thrust 
 back the sympathies which are ever trying to cling 
 to the inanimate things around us. A breeze 
 comes in at the carriage window a wild puff, 
 disturbing the heated stillness of the summer day. 
 It is easy to tell where that came from silently 
 the Downs have stolen into sight. 
 
 So easy is the outline of the ridge, so broad and 
 flowing are the slopes, that those who have not 
 mounted them cannot grasp the idea of their real 
 height and steepness. The copse upon the summit 
 yonder looks but a short stroll distant ; how much
 
 TO BRIGHTON 
 
 you would be deceived did you attempt to walk 
 thither ! The ascent here in front seems nothing, 
 but you must rest before you have reached a third 
 of the way up. Ditchling Beacon there, on the 
 left, is the very highest above the sea of the whole 
 mighty range, but so great is the mass of the hill 
 that the glance does not realise it. 
 
 Hope dwells there, somewhere, mayhap, in the 
 breeze, in the sward, or the pale cups of the hare- 
 bells. Now, having gazed at these, we can lean 
 back on the cushions and wait patiently for the sea. 
 There is nothing else, except the noble sycamores 
 on the left hand just before the train draws into 
 the station. 
 
 The clean dry brick pavements are scarcely less 
 crowded than those of London, but as you drive 
 through the town, now and then there is a glimpse 
 of a greenish mist afar off between the houses. 
 The green mist thickens in one spot almost at the 
 horizon ; or is it the dark nebulous sails of a 
 vessel ? Then the foam suddenly appears close 
 at hand a white streak seems to run from house 
 to house, reflecting the sunlight ; and this is 
 Brighton. 
 
 " How different the sea looks away from the 
 
 pier ! " It is a new pleasure to those who have 
 
 been full of gaiety to see, for once, the sea itself. 
 
 Westwards, a mile beyond Hove, beyond the coast- 
 
 247
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 guard cottages, turn aside from the road, and go up 
 on the rough path along the ridge of shingle. The 
 hills are away on the right, the sea on the left ; 
 the yards of the ships in the basin slant across the 
 sky in front. 
 
 With a quick, sudden heave the summer sea, 
 calm and gleaming, runs a little way up the side 
 of the groyne, and again retires. There is scarce 
 a gurgle or a bubble, but the solid timbers are 
 polished and smooth where the storms have worn 
 them with pebbles. From a grassy spot ahead a 
 bird rises, marked with white, and another follows 
 it ; they are wheatears ; they frequent the land by 
 the low beach in the autumn. 
 
 A shrill but feeble pipe is the cry of the sand- 
 piper, disturbed on his moist feeding-ground. 
 Among the stones by the waste places there are 
 pale-green wrinkled leaves, and the large yellow 
 petals of the sea-poppy. The bright colour is 
 pleasant, but it is a flower best left ungathered, for 
 its odour is not sweet. On the wiry sward the light 
 pink of the sea-daisies (or thrift) is dotted here and 
 there : of these gather as you will. The presence 
 even of such simple flowers, of such well-known 
 birds, distinguishes the solitary from the trodden 
 beach. The pier is in view, but the sea is dif- 
 ferent here. 
 
 Drive eastwards along the cliff's to the rough 
 _ 24 8-
 
 TO BRIGHTON a^^a^ar 
 
 steps cut down to the beach, descend to the shingle, 
 and stroll along the shore to Rottingdean. The 
 buttresses of chalk shut out the town if you go to 
 them, and rest near the large pebbles heaped at the 
 foot. There is nothing but the white cliff, the 
 green sea, the sky, and the slow ships that scarcely 
 stir. 
 
 In the spring, a starling comes to his nest in a 
 cleft of the cliff above ; he shoots over from the dizzy 
 edge, spreads his wings, borne up by the ascending 
 air, and in an instant is landed in his cave. On 
 the sward above, in the autumn, the yellow lip of 
 the toad-flax, spotted with orange, peers from the 
 grass as you rest and gaze how far ? out upon 
 the glorious plain. 
 
 Or go up on the hill by the race-course, the 
 highest part near the sea, and sit down there on the 
 turf. If the west or south wind blow ever so 
 slightly the low roar of the surge floats up, min- 
 gling with the rustle of the corn stacked in shocks 
 on the slope. There inhale unrestrained the breeze, 
 the sunlight, and the subtle essence which emanates 
 from the ocean. For the loneliest of places are on 
 the borders of a gay crowd, and thus in Brighton 
 the by-name for all that is crowded and London- 
 like it is possible to dream on the sward and on 
 the shore. 
 
 In the midst, too, of this most modern of cities, 
 _ 249 _
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON S& 
 
 with its swift, luxurious service of Pullman cars, 
 its piers, and social pleasures, there exists a collec- 
 tion which in a few strokes, as it were, sketches 
 the ways and habits and thoughts of old rural 
 England. It is not easy to realise in these days 
 of quick transit and still quicker communication 
 that old England was mostly rural. 
 
 There were towns, of course, seventy years ago, 
 but even the towns were penetrated with what, for 
 want of a better word, may be called country 
 sentiment. Just the reverse is now the case ; the 
 most distant hamlet which the wanderer in his 
 autumn ramblings may visit, is now more or less 
 permeated with the feelings and sentiment of the 
 city. No written history has preserved the daily 
 life of the men who ploughed the Weald behind 
 the hills there, or tended the sheep on the Downs, 
 before our beautiful land was crossed with iron 
 roads ; while news, even from the field of Water- 
 loo, had to travel slowly. And, after all, written 
 history is but words, and words are not tangible. 
 
 But in this collection of old English jugs, and 
 mugs, and bowls, and cups, and so forth, exhibited 
 in the Museum, there is the real presentment of 
 old rural England. Feeble pottery has ever borne 
 the impress of man more vividly than marble. 
 From these they quenched their thirst, over these 
 they laughed and joked, and gossiped, and sang old 
 250
 
 TO BRIGHTON 
 
 hunting songs till the rafters rang, and the dogs 
 under the table got up and barked. Cannot you 
 see them ? The stubbles are ready now once more 
 for the sportsmen. 
 
 With long-barrelled flint-lock guns they ranged 
 over that wonderful map of the land which lies 
 spread out at your feet as you look down from the 
 Dyke. There are already yellowing leaves ; they 
 will be brown after a while, and the covers will 
 be ready once more for the visit of the hounds. 
 The toast upon this mug would be very gladly 
 drunk by the agriculturist of to-day in his silk hat 
 and black coat. It is just what he has been 
 wishing these many seasons. 
 
 " Here 's to thee, mine honest friend, 
 Wishing these hard times to mend." 
 
 Hard times, then, are nothing new. 
 
 " It is good ale," is the inscription on another 
 jug ; that jug would be very welcome if so filled in 
 many a field this very day. " Better luck still " 
 is a jug motto which every one who reads it will 
 secretly respond to. Cock-fighting has gone by, 
 but we are eVen more than ever on the side of fair 
 play, and in that sense can endorse the motto, 
 " May the best cock win." A cup desires that 
 fate should give 
 
 " Money to him who has spirit to use it, 
 And life to him who has courage to lose it." 
 251
 
 *E^3g NATURE NEAR LONDON se^g 
 
 A mug is moderate of wishes and somewhat 
 cynical : 
 
 " A little health, a little wealth, 
 A little house, and freedom ; 
 And at the end a little friend, 
 And little cause to need him." 
 
 The toper, if he drank too deep, sometimes 
 found a frog or newt at the bottom (in china) 
 a hint not to be too greedy. There seem to have 
 been sad dogs about in those days from the picture 
 on this piece one sniffing regretfully at the 
 bunghole of an empty barrel : 
 
 " This cask when stored with gin I loved to taste, 
 But now a smell, alas ! must break my fast." 
 
 Upon a cup a somewhat Chinese arrangement 
 of words is found : 
 
 More beer score Clarke 
 
 for my the his 
 
 do trust pay sent 
 
 I I must has 
 
 shall if you maltster 
 
 what for and the 
 
 These parallel columns can be deciphered by 
 beginning at the last word, " the," -on the right 
 hand, and reading up. With rude and sometimes 
 grim humour our forefathers seem to have been 
 delighted. The teapots of our great-grandmothers 
 are even more amusingly inscribed and illustrated. 
 At Gretna-green the blacksmith is performing a
 
 TO BRIGHTON 
 
 " Red Hot Marriage," using his anvil for the 
 altar. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Blacksmith, ease our pains, 
 And tie us fast in wedlock's chains." 
 
 The china decorated with vessels and alluding 
 to naval matters shows how popular was the navy, 
 and how deeply everything concerning Nelson's 
 men had sunk into the minds of the people. 
 Some of the line of battle ships here represented 
 are most cleverly executed every sail and rope 
 and gun brought out with a clearness which the 
 best draughtsman could hardly excel. It is a little 
 hard, however, to preserve the time-honoured im- 
 putation upon Jack's constancy in this way on 
 a jug: 
 
 " A sailor's life 's a pleasant life, 
 
 He freely roams from shore to shore ; 
 In every port he finds a wife 
 What can a sailor wish for more ? " 
 
 Some enamoured potter having produced a mas- 
 terpiece as a present to his lady destroyed the de- 
 sign, so that the service he gave her might be 
 unique. After gazing at these curious old pieces, 
 with dates of 1754, 1728, and so forth, the mind 
 becomes attuned to such times, and the jug with 
 the inscription, "Claret, 1652," seems quite an 
 easy and natural transition. 
 
 From the Brighton of to-day it is centuries back 
 to 1754; but from 1754 to 1652 is but a year or 
 253
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 two. And after studying these shelves, and get- 
 ting, as it were, so deep down into the past, it is 
 with a kind of Rip Van Winkle feeling that you 
 enter again into the sunshine of the day. The 
 fair upon the beach does not seem quite real for 
 a few minutes. 
 
 Before the autumn is too far advanced and the 
 skies are uncertain, a few hours should be given to 
 that massive Down which fronts the traveller from 
 London, Ditchling Beacon, the highest above the 
 sea-level. It is easy of access, the train carries 
 you to Hassock's Gate the station is almost in 
 a copse and an omnibus runs from it to a 
 comfortable inn in the centre of Ditchling village. 
 Thence to the Down itself the road is straight, 
 and the walk no longer than is always welcome 
 after riding. 
 
 After leaving the cottages and gardens, the road 
 soon becomes enclosed with hedges and trees, 
 a mere country lane ; and how pleasant are the 
 trees after the bare shore and barren sea ! The 
 hand of autumn has browned the oaks, and has 
 passed over the hedge, reddening the haws. The 
 north wind rustles the dry hollow stalks of plants 
 upon the mound, and there is a sense of hardihood 
 in the touch of its breath. 
 
 The light is brown, for a vapour conceals the 
 sun it is not like a cloud, for it has no end or
 
 TO BRIGHTON 
 
 outline, and it is high above where the summer 
 blue was lately. Or is it the buff leaves, the grey 
 stalks, the dun grasses, the ripe fruit, the mist 
 which hides the distance that makes the day so 
 brown ? But the ditches below are yet green with 
 brooklime and rushes. By a gateway stands a tall 
 campanula or bell-flower, two feet high or nearly, 
 with great bells of blue. 
 
 A passing shepherd, without his sheep, but 
 walking with his crook as a staff, stays and turns a 
 brown face towards me when I ask him the way. 
 He points with his iron crook at a narrow line 
 which winds up the Down by some chalk-pits ; it 
 is a footpath from the corner of the road. Just 
 by the corner the hedge is grey with silky flocks 
 of clematis ; the hawthorn is hidden by it. Near 
 by there is a bush, made up of branches from five 
 different shrubs and plants. 
 
 First hazel, from which the yellow leaves are 
 fast dropping; among this dogwood, with leaves 
 darkening ; between these a bramble bearing berries, 
 some red and some ripe, and yet a pink flower 
 or two left. Thrusting itself into the tangle, long 
 woody bines of bittersweet hang their clusters of 
 red berries, and above and over all the hoary 
 clematis spreads its beard, whitening to meet the 
 winter. These five are all intermixed and bound 
 up together, flourishing in a mass ; nuts and edible 
 -255
 
 a^as; NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 berries, semi-poisonous fruit, flowers, creepers ; and 
 hazel, with markings under its outer bark like a 
 gun-barrel. 
 
 This is the last of the plain. Now every step 
 exposes the climber to the force of the unchecked 
 wind. The harebells swing before it, the ben nets 
 whistle, but the sward springs to the foot, and the 
 heart grows lighter as the height increases. The 
 ancient hill is alone with the wind. The broad 
 summit is left to scattered furze and fern cowering 
 under its shelter. A sunken fosse and earthwork 
 have slipped together. So lowly are they now 
 after these fourteen hundred years that in places 
 the long rough grass covers and conceals them 
 altogether. 
 
 Down in the hollow the breeze does not come, 
 and the bennets do not whistle, yet gazing upwards 
 at the vapour in the sky I fancy I can hear the 
 mass, as it were, of the wind going over. Stand- 
 ing presently at the edge of the steep descent look- 
 ing into the Weald, it seems as if the mighty blast 
 rising from that vast plain and glancing up the 
 slope like an arrow from a tree could lift me up 
 and bear me as it bears a hawk with outspread 
 wings. 
 
 A mist which does not roll along or move is 
 drawn across the immense stage below like a cur- 
 tain. There is, indeed, a brown wood beneath ; 
 -256-
 
 TO BRIGHTON 
 
 but nothing more is visible. The plain is the 
 vaster for its vague uncertainty. From the north 
 comes down the wind, out of the brown autumn 
 light, from the woods below and twenty miles of 
 stubble. Its stratum and current is eight hundred 
 feet deep. 
 
 Against my chest, coming up from the plough 
 down there (the old plough, with the shaft moving 
 on a framework with wheels), it hurls itself against 
 the green ramparts, and bounds up savagely at de- 
 lay. The ears are filled with a continuous sense 
 of something rushing past ; the shoulders go back 
 square; an iron-like feeling enters into the sinews. 
 The air goes through my coat as if it were gauze, 
 and strokes the skin like a brush. 
 
 The tide of the wind, like the tide of the sea, 
 swirls about, and its cold push at the first causes a 
 lifting feeling in the chest a gulp and pant as 
 if it were too keen and strong to be borne. Then 
 the blood meets it, and every fibre and nerve is 
 filled with new vigour. I cannot drink enough 
 of it. This is the north wind. 
 
 High as is the hill, there are larks yonder singing 
 higher still, suspended in the brown light. Turn- 
 ing away at last and tracing the fosse, there is, at 
 the point where it is deepest and where there is 
 some trifling shelter, a flat hawthorn bush. It has 
 grown as flat as a hurdle, as if trained espalierwise 
 17 257
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 or against a wall the effect, no doubt, of the 
 winds. Into and between its gnarled branches, 
 dry and leafless, furze boughs have been woven in 
 and out, so as to form a shield against the breeze. 
 On the lee of this natural hurdle there are black 
 charcoal fragments and ashes, where a fire has 
 burnt itself out ; the stick still leans over on which 
 was hung the vessel used at this wild bivouac. 
 
 Descending again by the footpath, the spur of 
 the hill yonder looks larger and steeper and more 
 ponderous in the mist; it seems higher than this, a 
 not unusual appearance when the difference in alti- 
 tude is not very great. The level we are on seems 
 to us beneath the level in the distance, as the 
 future is higher than the present. In the hedge 
 or scattered bushes, half-way down by the chalk-pit, 
 there grows a spreading shrub the wayfaring 
 tree bearing large, broad, downy leaves and 
 clusters of berries, some red and some black, flat- 
 tened at their sides. There are nuts, too, here, 
 and large sloes or wild bullace. This Ditchling 
 Beacon is, I think, the nearest and the most acces- 
 sible of the southern Alps from London ; it is so 
 near it may almost be said to be in the environs of 
 the capital. But it is alone with the wind.
 
 THE SOUTHDOWN SHEPHERD 
 
 iHE shepherd came down the hill carry- 
 ing his greatcoat slung at his back 
 upon his crook, and balanced by the 
 long handle projecting in front. He 
 was very ready and pleased to show his crook, 
 which, however, was not so symmetrical in shape 
 as those which are represented upon canvas. Nor 
 was the handle straight ; it was a rough stick 
 the first, evidently, that had come to hand. 
 
 As there were no hedges or copses near his 
 walks, he had to be content with this bent wand 
 till he could get a better. The iron crook itself 
 he said was made by a blacksmith in a village be- 
 low. A good crook was often made from the 
 barrel of an old single-barrel gun, such as in their 
 decadence are turned over to the birdkeepers. 
 
 About a foot of the barrel being sawn off at the 
 muzzle end, there was a tube at once to fit the 
 staff into, while the crook was formed by hammer- 
 ing the tough metal into a curve upon the anvil. 
 So the gun the very symbol of destruction 
 was beaten into the pastoral crook, the emblem 
 259
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 and implement of peace. These crooks of village 
 workmanship are now subject to competition from 
 the numbers offered for sale at the shops at the 
 market towns, where scores of them are hung up 
 on show, all exactly alike, made to pattern, as if 
 stamped out by machinery. 
 
 Each village-made crook had an individuality, 
 that of the blacksmith somewhat rude, perhaps, 
 but distinctive the hand shown in the iron. 
 While talking, a wheatear flew past, and alighted 
 near the path a place they frequent. The opin- 
 ion seems general that wheatears are not so numer- 
 ous as they used to be. You can always see two 
 or three on the Downs in autumn, but the shep- 
 herd said years ago he had heard of one man 
 catching seventy dozen in a day. 
 
 Perhaps such wholesale catches were the cause 
 of the comparative deficiency at the present day, 
 not only by actual diminution of numbers, but in 
 partially diverting the stream of migration. Tra- 
 dition is very strong in birds (and all animated 
 creatures) ; they return annually in the face of 
 terrible destruction, and the individuals do not 
 seem to comprehend the danger. But by degrees 
 the race at large becomes aware of and acknowl- 
 edges the mistake, and slowly the original tracks 
 are deserted. This is the case with water-fowl, 
 and even, some think, with sea-fish. 
 260
 
 SOUTHDOWN SHEPHERD 
 
 There was not so much game on the part of the 
 hills he frequented as he had known when he was 
 young, and with the decrease of the game the foxes 
 had become less numerous. There was less cover 
 as the furze was ploughed up. It paid, of course, 
 better to plough it up, and as much as an addi- 
 tional two hundred acres on a single farm had been 
 brought under the plough in his time. Partridges 
 had much decreased, but there were still plenty of 
 hares : he had known the harriers sometimes kill 
 two dozen a day. 
 
 Plenty of rabbits still remained in places. The 
 foxes' earths were in their burrows or sometimes 
 under a hollow tree, and when the word was sent 
 round the shepherds stopped them for the hunt very 
 early in the morning. Foxes used to be almost 
 thick. He had seen as many as six (doubtless the 
 vixen and cubs) sunning themselves on the cliffs 
 at Beachy Head, lying on ledges before their inac- 
 cessible breeding-places, in the face of the chalk. 
 
 At present he did not think there were more 
 than two there. They ascended and descended 
 the cliff with ease, though not, of course, the straight 
 wall or precipice. He had known them fall over 
 and be dashed to pieces, as when fighting on the 
 edge, or in winter by the snow giving way under 
 them. As the snow came drifting along the sum- 
 mit of the Down it gradually formed a projecting 
 261
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 eave or cornice, projecting the length of the arm, 
 and frozen. 
 
 Something like this may occasionally be seen on 
 houses when the partially melted snow has frozen 
 again before it could quite slide off. Walking on 
 this at night, when the whole ground was white 
 with snow, and no part could be distinguished, the 
 weight of the fox as he passed a weak place caused 
 it to give way, and he could not save himself. 
 Last winter he had had two lambs, each a month 
 old,. killed by a fox which ate the heads and left the 
 bodies ; the fox always eating the head first, sev- 
 ering it, whether of a hare, rabbit, duck, or the 
 tender lamb, and " covering " digging a hole and 
 burying that which he cannot finish. To the 
 buried carcase the fox returns the next night before 
 he kills again. 
 
 His dog was a cross with a collie : the old sheep- 
 dogs were shaggier and darker. Most of the 
 sheep-dogs now used were crossed with the collie, 
 either with Scotch or French, and were very fast 
 too fast in some respects. He was careful not 
 to send them much after the flock, especially after 
 feeding, when, in his own words, the sheep had 
 " best walk slow then, like folk," like human 
 beings, who are not to be hastened after a meal. 
 If he wished his dog to fetch the flock, he pointed 
 his arm in the direction he wished the dog to go, 
 262
 
 -^~3Z SOUTHDOWN SHEPHERD 
 
 and said, " Put her back." Often it was to keep 
 the sheep out of turnips or wheat, there being no 
 fences. But he made it a practice to walk himself 
 on the side where care was needed, so as not to 
 employ the dog unless necessary. 
 
 There is something almost Australian in the 
 wide expanse of South Down sheepwalks, and in 
 the number of the flocks, to those who have been 
 accustomed to the small sheltered meadows of the 
 vales, where forty or fifty sheep are about the ex- 
 tent of the stock on many farms. The land, too, 
 is rented at colonial prices, but a few shillings per 
 acre, so different from the heavy meadow rents. 
 But, then, the sheep-farmer has to occupy a certain 
 proportion of arable land as well as pasture, and 
 here his heavy losses mainly occur. 
 
 There is nothing, in fact, in this country so 
 carefully provided against as the possibility of an 
 English farmer becoming wealthy. Much down- 
 land is covered with furze; some seems to produce 
 a grass too coarse, so that the rent is really pro- 
 portional. A sheep to an acre is roughly the 
 allowance. 
 
 From all directions along the roads the bleating 
 flocks concentrate at the right time upon the hill- 
 side where the sheep-fair is held. You can go no- 
 where in the adjacent town except uphill, and it 
 needs no hand-post to the fair to those who know 
 -263-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 a farmer when they see him, the stream of folk 
 tender thither so plainly. It rains, as the shepherd 
 said it would; the houses keep off the drift some- 
 what in the town, but when this shelter is left 
 behind, the sward of the hilltop seems among the 
 clouds. 
 
 The descending vapours close in the view on 
 every side. The actual field underfoot, the actual 
 site of the fair, is visible, but the surrounding valleys 
 and the Downs beyond them are hidden with vast 
 masses of grey mist. For a moment, perhaps, a 
 portion may lift as the breeze drives it along, and 
 the bold, sweeping curves of a distant hill appear, 
 but immediately the rain falls again and the outline 
 vanishes. The glance can only penetrate a few 
 hundred yards ; all beyond that becomes indistinct, 
 and some cattle standing higher up the hill are 
 vague and shadowy. 
 
 Like a dew, the thin rain deposits a layer of tiny 
 globules on the coat ; the grass is white with them ; 
 hurdles, flakes, everything is as it were the eighth of 
 an inch deep in water. Thus on the hillside, sur- 
 rounded by the clouds, the fair seems isolated and 
 afar off. A great cart-horse is being trotted out 
 before the little street of booths to make him show 
 his paces ; they flourish the first thing at hand 
 a pole with a red flag at the end and the huge 
 frightened animal plunges hither and thither in 
 -264-
 
 3K SOUTHDOWN SHEPHERD 2I~ 
 
 clumsy terror. You must look out for yourself 
 and keep an eye over your shoulder, except among 
 the sheep-pens. 
 
 There are thousands of sheep, all standing with 
 their heads uphill. At the corner of each pen the 
 shepherd plants his crook upright : some of them 
 have long brown handles, and these are of hazel 
 with the bark on ; others are ash, and one of wil- 
 low. At the corners, too, just outside, the dogs 
 are chained, and, in addition, there is a whole row 
 of dogs fastened to the tent pegs. The majority 
 of the dogs thus collected together from many 
 miles of the Downs are either collies, or show a 
 very decided trace of the collie. 
 
 One old shepherd, an ancient of the ancients, grey 
 and bent, has spent so many years among his sheep 
 that he has lost all notice and observation there 
 is no "speculation in his eye" for anything but his 
 sheep. In his blue smock frock, with his brown 
 umbrella, which he has had no time or thought to 
 open, he stands listening, all intent, to the conver- 
 sation of the gentlemen who are examining his 
 pens. He leads a young restless collie by a chain ; 
 the links are polished to a silvery brightness by 
 continual motion; the collie cannot keep still; 
 now he runs one side, now the other, bumping 
 the old man, who is unconscious of everything 
 but the sheep. 
 
 -a6 5 _
 
 3E=^=<g NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 At the verge of the pens there stand four oxen 
 with their yokes, and the long slender guiding rod 
 of hazel placed lightly across the necks of the two 
 foremost. They are quite motionless, except their 
 eyes, and the slender rod, so lightly laid across, 
 will remain without falling. After traversing the 
 whole field, if you return you will find them 
 exactly in the same position. Some black cattle 
 are scattered about on the high ground in the 
 mist, which thickens beyond them, and fills up 
 the immense hollow of the valley. 
 
 In the street of booths there are the rounda- 
 bouts, the swings, the rifle galleries like shooting 
 into the mouth of a great trumpet the shows, 
 the cakes and brown nuts and gingerbread, the 
 ale barrels in a row, the rude forms and trestle 
 tables ; just the same, the very same, we saw at 
 our first fair five and twenty years ago, and a 
 hundred miles away. It is just the same this 
 year as last, like the ploughs and hurdles, and 
 the sheep themselves. There is nothing new to 
 tempt the ploughboy's pennies nothing fresh to 
 stare at. 
 
 The same thing year after year, and the same 
 sounds the dismal barrel organs, and brazen in- 
 struments, and pipes, wailing, droning, booming. 
 How melancholy the inexpressible noise when the 
 fair is left behind, and the wet vapours are set- 
 266
 
 SOUTHDOWN SHEPHERD 2E 
 
 ding and thickening around it ! But the melan- 
 choly is not in the fair the ploughboy likes 
 it ; it is in ourselves, in the thought that thus, 
 though the years go by, so much of human 
 life remains the same the same blatant dis- 
 cord, the same monotonous roundabout, the same 
 poor gingerbread. 
 
 The ploughs are at work, travelling slowly at 
 the ox's pace up and down the hillside. The 
 South Down plough could scarcely have been in- 
 vented ; it must have been put together bit by 
 bit in the slow years slower than the ox ; it is 
 the completed structure of long experience. It is 
 made of many pieces, chiefly wood, fitted and shaped 
 and worked, as it were, together, well seasoned first, 
 built up, like a ship, by cunning of hand. 
 
 None of these were struck out a hundred a 
 minute by irresistible machinery ponderously im- 
 pressing its will on iron as a seal on wax a hun- 
 dred a minute, and all exactly alike. These separate 
 pieces which compose the plough were cut, chosen, 
 and shaped in the wheelwright's workshop, chosen 
 by the eye, guided in its turn by long knowledge 
 of wood, and shaped by the living though hardened 
 hand of man. So complicated a structure could 
 no more have been struck out on paper in a de- 
 liberate and single plan than those separate pieces 
 could have been produced by a single blow. 
 -267-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON s&i 
 
 There are no machine lines no lines filed 
 out in iron or cut by the lathe to the draughts- 
 man's design, drawn with straight-edge and ruler 
 on paper. The thing has been put together bit 
 by bit : how many thousand, thousand clods must 
 have been turned in the furrows before the idea 
 arose, and the curve to be given to this or that 
 part grew upon the mind as the branch grows 
 on the tree ! There is not a sharp edge or sharp 
 corner in it; it is all bevelled and smoothed and 
 fluted as if it had been patiently carved with 
 a knife, so that, touch it where you will, it 
 handles pleasantly. 
 
 In these curved lines and smoothness, in this per- 
 fect adaptability of means to end, there is the spirit 
 of art showing itself, not with colour or crayon, 
 but working in tangible material substance. The 
 makers of this plough not the designer the 
 various makers, who gradually put it together, 
 had many things to consider. The fields where 
 it had to work were, for the most part, on a slope, 
 often thickly strewn with stones which jar and 
 fracture iron. 
 
 The soil was thin, scarce enough on the upper 
 part to turn a furrow, deepening to nine inches 
 or so at the bottom. So quickly does the rain 
 sink in, and so quickly does it dry, that the teams 
 work in almost every weather, while those in the 
 268
 
 SOUTHDOWN SHEPHERD 
 
 vale are enforced to idleness. Drain furrows were 
 not needed, nor was it desirable that the ground 
 should be thrown up in " lands," rising in the 
 centre. Oxen were the draught animals, patient 
 enough, but certainly not nimble. The share had 
 to be set for various depths of soil. 
 
 All these are met by the wheel plough, and in 
 addition it fulfils the indefinite and indefinable 
 condition of handiness. A machine may be ap- 
 parently perfect, a boat may seem on paper, and 
 examined on principles, the precise build, and yet 
 when the one is set to work and the other floated 
 they may fail. But the wheel plough, having 
 grown up, as it were, out of the soil, fulfils the 
 condition of handiness. 
 
 This handiness, in fact, embraces a number of 
 minor conditions which can scarcely be reduced 
 to writing, but which constantly occur in prac- 
 tice, and by which the component parts of the 
 plough were doubtless unconsciously suggested to 
 the makers. Each has its proper name. The 
 framework on wheels in front the distinctive 
 characteristic of the plough is called collectively 
 " tacks," and the shafts of the plough rest on it 
 loosely, so that they swing or work almost inde- 
 pendently, not unlike a field gun limbered up. 
 
 The pillars of the framework have numerous 
 holes, so that the plough can be raised or lowered, 
 269
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 that the share may dig deep or shallow. Then there 
 is the " cock-pin," the " road-bat " (a crooked piece 
 of wood), the " sherve-wright " (so pronounced) 
 shelvewright (?) the " rist," and spindle, 
 besides, of course, the usual coulter and share. 
 When the oxen arrive at the top of the fie!d, 
 and the first furrow is completed, they stop, well 
 knowing their duty, while the ploughman moves 
 the iron rist, and the spindle which keeps it in 
 position, to the other side, and moves the road- 
 bat so as to push the coulter aside. These oper- 
 ations are done in a minute, and correspond in 
 some degree to turning the rudder of a ship. The 
 object is that the plough which has been turning 
 the earth one way, shall now (as it is reversed 
 to go downhill) continue to turn it that way. 
 If the change were not effected when the plough 
 was swung round, the furrow would be made 
 opposite. Next he leans heavily on the handles, 
 still standing on the same spot; this lifts the 
 plough, so that it turns easily as if on a pivot. 
 
 Then the oxen "jack round" that is, walk 
 round so as to face downhill, the framework 
 in front turning like the fore-wheels of a car- 
 riage. So soon as they face downhill and the 
 plough is turned, they commence work and make 
 the second furrow side by side with the first. The 
 same operation is repeated at the bottom, and 
 270
 
 SOUTHDOWN SHEPHERD 25= 
 
 thus the plough travels straight up and down, 
 always turning the furrow the same way, in- 
 stead of, as in the valleys, making a short cir- 
 cuit at each end, and throwing the earth in 
 opposite directions. The result is a perfectly 
 level field, which, though not designed for it, 
 must suit the reaping-machine better than the 
 drain furrows and raised " lands " of the valley 
 system. 
 
 It is somewhat curious that the steam plough, 
 the most remarkable application of machinery to 
 agriculture, in this respect resembles the village- 
 made wheel plough. "The plough drawn by steam 
 power in like manner turns the second furrow 
 side by side into the first, always throwing the 
 earth the same way, and leaving the ground level. 
 This is one of its defects on heavy wet land, 
 as it does not drain the surface. But upon the 
 slopes of the Downs no drains or raised " lands " 
 are needed, and the wheel plough answers 
 perfectly. 
 
 So perfectly, indeed, does it answer that no 
 iron plough has yet been invented that can beat 
 it, and while the valleys and plains are now al- 
 most wholly worked with factory-made ploughs, 
 the South Downs are cultivated with the ploughs 
 made in the villages by the wheelwrights. A 
 wheelwright is generally regularly employed by
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 two or three farms, which keep him in constant 
 work. There is not, perhaps, another home- 
 made implement of old English agriculture left 
 in use; certainly, none at once so curious and in- 
 teresting, and, when drawn by oxen, so thoroughly 
 characteristic. 
 
 Under the September sun, flowers may still be 
 found in sheltered places, as at the side of furze, 
 on the highest of the Downs. Wild thyme con- 
 tinues to bloom the shepherd's thyme wild 
 mignonette, blue scabious, white dropwort, yellow 
 bedstraw, and the large purple blooms of greater 
 knapweed. Here and there a blue field gentian 
 is still in flower ; " eggs and bacon " grow beside 
 the waggon tracks. Grasshoppers hop among the 
 short dry grass ; bees and humble-bees are buzz- 
 ing about, and there are places quite bright with 
 yellow hawkweeds. 
 
 The furze is everywhere full of finches, troops 
 of them ; and there are many more swallows than 
 were flying here a month since. No doubt they 
 are on their way southwards, and stay, as it were, 
 on the edge of the sea while yet the sun shines. 
 As the evening falls the sheep come slowly home 
 to the fold. When the flock is penned some 
 stand panting, and the whole body at each pant 
 moves to and fro lengthways ; some press against 
 the flakes till the wood creaks ; some paw the 
 272
 
 SOUTHDOWN SHEPHERD SEE 
 
 dry and crumbling ground (arable), making a hol- 
 low in which to lie down. 
 
 Rooks are fond of the places where sheep have 
 been folded, and perhaps that is one of the causes 
 why they so continually visit certain spots in par- 
 ticular fields to the neglect of the rest.
 
 THE BREEZE ON BEACHY HEAD 
 
 waves coming round the promon- 
 tory before the west wind still give 
 the idea of a flowing stream, as they 
 did in Homer's days. Here beneath 
 the cliff, standing where beach and sand meet, it 
 is still ; the wind passes six hundred feet overhead. 
 But yonder, every larger wave rolling before the 
 breeze breaks over the rocks ; a white line of 
 spray rushes along them, gleaming in the sun- 
 shine ; for a moment the dark rock-wall disap- 
 pears, till the spray sinks. 
 
 The sea seems higher than the spot where I 
 stand, its surface on a higher level raised like 
 a green mound as if it could burst in and oc- 
 cupy the space up to the foot of the cliff in a 
 moment. It will not do so, I know ; but there 
 is an infinite possibility about the sea; it may do 
 what it is not recorded to have done. It is not 
 to be ordered, it may overleap the bounds human 
 observation has fixed for it. It has a potency 
 unfathomable. There is still something in it not
 
 ON BEACHY HEAD 
 
 quite grasped and understood something still to 
 be discovered a mystery. 
 
 So the white spray rushes along the low broken 
 wall of rocks, the sun gleams on the flying frag- 
 ments of the wave, again it sinks, and the rhythmic 
 motion holds the mind, as an invisible force holds 
 back the tide. A faith of expectancy, a sense that 
 something may drift up from the unknown, a large 
 belief in the unseen resources of the endless space 
 out yonder, soothes the mind with dreamy hope. 
 
 The little rules and little experiences, all the 
 petty ways of narrow life, are shut off behind by 
 the ponderous and impassable cliff; as if we had 
 dwelt in the dim light of a cave, but coming 
 out at last to look at the sun, a great stone had 
 fallen and closed the entrance, so that there was 
 no return to the shadow. The impassable preci- 
 pice shuts off our former selves of yesterday, forc- 
 ing us to look out over the sea only, or up to the 
 deeper heaven. 
 
 These breadths draw out the soul ; we feel that 
 we have wider thoughts than we knew ; the soul 
 has been living, as it were, in a nutshell, all un- 
 aware of its own power, and now suddenly finds 
 freedom in the sun and the sky. Straight, as if 
 sawn down from turf to beach, the cliff shuts off 
 the human world, for the sea knows no time and 
 no era; you cannot tell what century it is from 
 275
 
 st^v, NATURE NEAR LONDON ^^^ 
 
 the face of the sea. A Roman trireme suddenly 
 rounding the white edge-line of chalk, borne on 
 wind and oar from the Isle of Wight towards the 
 grey castle at Pevensey (already old in olden days), 
 would not seem strange. What wonder could sur- 
 prise us coming from the wonderful sea ? 
 
 The little rills winding through the sand have 
 made an islet of a detached rock by the beach ; 
 limpets cover it, adhering like rivet-heads. In the 
 stillness here, under the roof of the wind so high 
 above, the sound of the sand draining itself is 
 audible. From the cliff blocks of chalk have 
 fallen, leaving hollows as when a knot drops from 
 a beam. They lie crushed together at the base, 
 and on the point of this jagged ridge a wheatear 
 perches. 
 
 There are ledges three hundred feet above, and 
 from these now and then a jackdaw glides out and 
 returns again to his place, where, when still and 
 with folded wings, he is but a speck of black. A 
 spire of chalk still higher stands out from the 
 wall, but the rains have got behind it and will 
 cut the crevice deeper and deeper into its founda- 
 tion. Water, too, has carried the soil from under 
 the turf at the summit over the verge, forming 
 brown streaks. 
 
 Upon the beach lies a piece of timber, part of 
 a wreck j the wood is torn and the fibres rent 
 _ 27 6-
 
 ON BEACHY H E A D 2~~l* 
 
 where it was battered against the dull edge of the 
 rocks. The heat of the sun burns, thrown back 
 by the dazzling chalk ; the river of ocean flows 
 ceaselessly, casting the spray over the stones ; the 
 unchanged sky is blue. 
 
 Let us go back and mount the steps at the Gap, 
 and rest on the sward there. I feel that I want 
 the presence of grass. The sky is a softer blue, 
 and the sun genial now the eye and the mind alike 
 are relieved the one of the strain of too great 
 solitude (not the solitude of the woods), the other 
 of too brilliant and hard a contrast of colours. 
 Touch but the grass, and the harmony returns; 
 it is repose after exaltation. 
 
 A vessel comes round the promontory ; it is not 
 a trireme of old Rome, nor the " fair and stately 
 galley " Count Arnaldus hailed with its seamen 
 singing the mystery of the sea. It is but a brig 
 in ballast, high out of the water, black of hull and 
 dingy of sail : still, it is a ship, and there is always 
 an interest about a ship. She is so near, running 
 along but just outside the reef, that the deck is 
 visible. Up rises her stern as the billows come 
 fast and roll under; then her bow lifts, and imme- 
 diately she rolls, and, loosely swaying with the sea, 
 drives along. 
 
 The slope of the billow now behind her is 
 white with the bubbles of her passage, rising^
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 too, from her rudder. Steering athwart with a 
 widening angle from the land, she is laid to clear 
 the distant point of Dungeness. Next, a steamer 
 glides forth, unseen till she passed the cliff; and 
 thus each vessel that comes from the westward has 
 the charm of the unexpected. Eastward there is 
 many a sail working slowly into the wind, and as 
 they approach talking in the language of flags with 
 the watch on the summit of the Head. 
 
 Once now and then the great Orient pauses 
 on her outward route to Australia, slowing her 
 engines: the immense length of her hull contains 
 every adjunct of modern life ; science, skill, and 
 civilisation are there. She starts, and is lost sight 
 of round the cliff, gone straight away for the very 
 ends of the world. The incident is forgotten, 
 when one morning, as you turn over the news- 
 paper, there is the Orient announced to start again. 
 It is like a tale of enchantment ; it seems but 
 yesterday that the Head hid her from view ; you 
 have scarcely moved, attending to the daily routine 
 of life, and scarce recognise that time has passed 
 at all. In so few hours has the earth been 
 encompassed. 
 
 The sea-gulls as they settle on the surface ride 
 
 high out of the water, like the mediaeval cara- 
 
 vals, with their sterns almost as tall as the masts. 
 
 Their unconcerned flight, with crooked wings 
 
 -278-
 
 ON BEACHY HEAD 
 
 unbent, as if it were no matter to them whether 
 they flew or floated, in its peculiar jerking motion 
 somewhat reminds one of the lapwing the heron 
 has it, too, a little as if aquatic or water-side birds 
 had a common and distinct action of the wing. 
 
 Sometimes a porpoise comes along, but just 
 beyond the reef; looking down on him from the 
 verge of the clifF, his course can be watched. His 
 dark body, wet and oily, appears on the surface 
 for two seconds ; and then, throwing up his tail 
 like the fluke of an anchor, down he goes. Now 
 look forward, along the waves, some fifty yards 
 or so, and he will come up, the sunshine gleam- 
 ing on the water as it runs off his back, to again 
 dive, and reappear after a similar interval. Even 
 when the eye can no longer distinguish the form, 
 the spot where he rises is visible, from the slight 
 change in the surface. 
 
 The hill receding in hollows leaves a narrow 
 plain between the foot of the sward and the clifF; 
 it is ploughed, and the teams come to the foot- 
 path which follows the edge ; and thus those who 
 plough the sea and those who plough the land 
 look upon each other. The one sees the vessel 
 change her tack, the other notes the plough turn- 
 ing at the end of the furrow. Bramble bushes 
 project over the dangerous wall of chalk, and 
 grasses fill up the interstices, a hedge suspended 
 279
 
 E^-X NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 in air ; but be careful not to reach too far for 
 the blackberries. 
 
 The green sea is on the one hand, the yellow 
 stubble on the other. The porpoise dives along 
 beneath, the sheep graze above. Green seaweed 
 lines the reef over which the white spray flies, 
 blue lucerne dots the field. The pebbles of the 
 beach seen from the height mingle in a faint blue 
 tint, as if the distance ground them into coloured 
 sand. Leaving the footpath now, and crossing 
 the stubble to " France," as the wide open hol- 
 low in the down is called by the shepherds, it is 
 no easy matter in dry summer weather to climb 
 the steep turf to the furze line above. 
 
 Dry grass is as slippery as if it were hair, and 
 the sheep have fed it too close for a grip of the 
 hand. Under the furze (still far from the sum- 
 mit) they have worn a path a narrow ledge, cut 
 by their cloven feet through the sward. It .is 
 time to rest ; and already, looking back, the sea 
 has extended to an indefinite horizon. This climb 
 of a few hundred feet opens a view of so many 
 miles more. But the ships lose their individuality 
 and human character; they are so far, so very far, 
 away, they do not take hold of the sympathies ; 
 they seem like sketches cunningly executed, but 
 only sketches on the immense canvas of the 
 ocean. There is something unreal about them.
 
 3KBREEZE ON BEACHY H E A D :g 
 
 On a calm day, when the surface is smooth as 
 if the brimming ocean had been straked the rod 
 passed across the top of the measure, thrusting off 
 the irregularities of wave; when the distant green 
 from long simmering under the sun becomes pale; 
 when the sky, without cloud, but with some slight 
 haze in it, likewise loses its hue, and the two so 
 commingle in the pallor of heat that they cannot 
 be separated then the still ships appear sus- 
 pended in space. They are as much held from 
 above as upborne from beneath. 
 
 They are motionless, midway in space 
 whether it is sea or air is not to be known. 
 They neither float nor fly, they are suspended. 
 There is no force in the flat sail, the mast is life- 
 less, the hull without impetus. For hours they 
 linger, changeless as the constellations, still, silent, 
 motionless, phantom vessels on a void sea. 
 
 Another climb up from the sheep path, and it is 
 not far then to the terrible edge of that tremen- 
 dous cliff which rises straighter than a ship's side 
 out of the sea, six hundred feet above the detached 
 rock below, where the limpets cling like rivet 
 heads, and the sand rills run around it. But it is 
 not possible to look down to it the glance of 
 necessity falls outwards, as a raindrop from the 
 eaves is deflected by the wind, because it is the 
 edge where the mould crumbles ; the rootlets of 
 281
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 the grass are exposed ; the chalk is about to break 
 away in flakes. 
 
 You cannot lean over as over a parapet, lest 
 such a flake should detach itself lest a mere 
 trifle should begin to fall, awakening a dread and 
 dormant inclination to slide and finally plunge like 
 it. Stand back; the sea there goes out and out, 
 to the left and to the right, and how far is it to the 
 blue overhead ? The eye must stay here a long 
 period, and drink in these distances, before it can 
 adjust the measure, and know exactly what it sees. 
 
 The vastness conceals itself, giving us no land- 
 mark or milestone. The fleck of cloud yonder, 
 does it part it in two, or is it but a third of the 
 way ? The world is an immense caldron, the 
 ocean fills it, and we are merely on the rim this 
 narrow land is but a ribbon to the limitlessness 
 yonder. The wind rushes out upon it with wild 
 joy; springing from the edge of the earth, it leaps 
 out over the ocean. Let us go back a few steps 
 and recline on the warm, dry turf. 
 
 It is pleasant to look back upon the green slope 
 and the hollows and narrow ridges, with sheep and 
 stubble and some low hedges, and oxen, and that 
 old, old sloth the plough creeping in his path. 
 The sun is bright on the stubble and the corners 
 of furze; there are bees humming yonder, no doubt, 
 and flowers, and hares crouching the dew dried 
 282
 
 BREEZE ON BEACHY 
 
 from around them long since, and waiting for it 
 to fall again ; partridges, too, corn-ricks, and the 
 roof of a farmhouse by them. Lit with sunlight 
 are the fields, warm autumn garnering all that is 
 dear to the heart of man, blue heaven above how 
 sweet the wind comes from these! the sweeter 
 for the knowledge of the profound abyss behind. 
 
 Here, reclining on the grass the verge of the 
 cliff rising a little, shuts out the actual sea the 
 glance goes forth into the hollow unsupported. 
 It is sweeter towards the corn-ricks, and yet the 
 mind will not be satisfied, but ever turns to the 
 unknown. The edge and the abyss recall us; 
 the boundless plain, for it appears solid as the 
 waves are levelled by distance, demands the gaze. 
 But with use it becomes easier, and the eye labours 
 less. There is a promontory standing out from 
 the main wall, whence you can see the side of the 
 cliff, getting a flank view, as from a tower. 
 
 The jackdaws occasionally floating out from 
 the ledge are as mere specks from above, as they 
 were from below. The reef running out from the 
 beach, though now covered by the tide, is visible 
 as you look down on it through the water ; the 
 seaweed, which lay matted and half dry on the 
 rocks, is now under the wave. Boats have come 
 round, and are beached ; how helplessly little they 
 seem beneath the cliff by the sea ! 
 -283-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 On returning homewards towards Eastbourne 
 stay awhile by the tumulus on the slope. There 
 are others hidden among the furze ; butterflies 
 flutter over them, and the bees hum round by 
 day; by night the night-hawk passes, coming up 
 from the fields and even skirting the sheds and 
 houses below. The rains beat on them, and the 
 storm drives the dead leaves over their low green 
 domes ; the waves boom on the shore far down. 
 
 How many times has the morning star shone 
 yonder in the East ? All the mystery of the 
 sun and of the stars centres around these lowly 
 mounds. 
 
 But the glory of these glorious Downs is the 
 breeze. The air in the valleys immediately be- 
 neath them is pure and pleasant ; but the least 
 climb, even a hundred feet, puts you on a plane 
 with the atmosphere itself, uninterrupted by so 
 much as the treetops. It is air without admix- 
 ture. If it comes from the south, the waves re- 
 fine it ; if inland, the wheat and flowers and grass 
 distil it. The great headland and the whole rib 
 of the promontory is wind-swept and washed with 
 air ; the billows of the atmosphere roll over it. 
 
 The sun searches out every crevice amongst the 
 grass, nor is there the smallest fragment of surface 
 which is not sweetened by air and light. Under- 
 neath, the chalk itself is pure, and the turf thus 
 -284-
 
 BREEZE ON BEACHY HEAD ^^s* 
 
 washed by wind and rain, sun-dried and dew- 
 scented, is a couch prepared with thyme to rest 
 on. Discover some excuse to be up there al- 
 ways, to search for stray mushrooms they will 
 be stray, for the crop is gathered extremely early 
 in the morning or to make a list of flowers and 
 grasses ; to do anything, and, if not, go always 
 without any pretext. Lands of gold have been 
 found, and lands of spices and precious merchan- 
 dise j but this is the land of health. 
 
 There is the sea below to bathe in, the air of 
 the sky up hither to breathe, the sun to infuse the 
 invisible magnetism of his beams. These are the 
 three potent medicines of nature, and they are 
 medicines that by degrees strengthen not only 
 the body but the unquiet mind. It is not neces- 
 sary to always look out over the sea. By strolling 
 along the slopes of the ridge a little way inland 
 there is another scene where hills roll on after hills 
 till the last and largest hides those that succeed 
 behind it. 
 
 Vast cloud-shadows darken one, and lift their 
 veil from another; like the sea, their tint varies 
 with the hue of the sky over them. Deep nar- 
 row valleys lanes in the hills draw the foot- 
 steps downwards into their solitude, but there is 
 always the delicious air, turn whither you will, 
 and there is always the grass, the touch of which 
 -285-
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON 
 
 refreshes. Though not in sight, it is pleasant to 
 know that the sea is close at hand, and that you 
 have only to mount to the ridge to view it. At 
 sunset the curves of the shore westward are rilled 
 with a luminous mist. 
 
 Or if it should be calm, and you should like to 
 look at the massive headland from the level of the 
 sea, row out a mile from the beach. Eastwards 
 a bank of red vapour shuts in the sea, the wavelets 
 no larger than those raised by the oar on that 
 side are purple as if wine had been spilt upon them, 
 but westwards the ripples shimmer with palest 
 gold. 
 
 The sun sinks behind the summit of the Downs, 
 and slender streaks of purple are drawn along above 
 them. A shadow comes forth from the cliff; a 
 duskiness dwells on the water; something tempts 
 the eye upwards, and near the zenith there is 
 a star. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 The University Press, Cambridge, U. S. A.
 
 DATE DUE
 
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