Nature Near London | Page 5

on the water
duck-weed 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 vegetation. 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 another. 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
cannot 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 thistles, on the point of

sending forth clouds of thistledown, 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 impossible to go anywhere in the open air
without a robin; they are the very spies of the wood. 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 ashpoles, 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 tops of the oaks swoop down again in bold
sweeping 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