Nature Near London | Page 2

just at the juncture of a chance
visit.
Though my preconceived ideas were overthrown by the presence 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 magnetised
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.

CONTENTS
PAGE
Woodlands 1
Footpaths 12
Flocks of Birds 24
Nightingale Road 35

A Brook 48
A London Trout 59
A Barn 70
Wheatfields 80
The Crows 90
Heathlands 101
The River 111
Nutty Autumn 124
Round a London Copse 133
Magpie Fields 147
Herbs 162
Trees About Town 172
To Brighton 181
The Southdown Shepherd 193
The Breeze on Beachy Head 204

NATURE NEAR LONDON
WOODLANDS
The tiny white petals of the barren strawberry open under the April
sunshine 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.
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 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 yellowhammer,
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,