THE FAERY YEAR 



bank without, we may well be thirsty for it in a July 

 drought is assuaging as the chalk stream that flows 

 in the meadows beneath. 



The white admiral is abundant and well known 

 in the New Forest, but I have never seen it there, 

 nor the purple emperor, which it resembles so 

 strikingly in upper and under dress and to some 

 extent in habits. I associate the admiral not with 

 oak forest, but hazel and oak underwoods, and can 

 hardly imagine it apart from this environment. Last 

 week I went to see silver- washed fritillary butter- 

 flies, and found myself, instead, in the midst of 

 white admirals. The woodland ride, with arch of 

 high shoots of hazel, ash, and oak, is cool in the 

 hottest hours. These cloisters have kept their green 

 almost at its May freshness. In the dry, stony 

 coppices that adjoin haunt of the grayling butter- 

 fly the St. John's wort and the wood sage that 

 flourish in the full heats of summer are out, thickets 

 of staring yellow and pale green blossom. They 

 seem fitted for sun-worshipping butterflies. 



But in the high underwoods there is hardly a 

 flower ; only here and there in the more open spots 

 along the mossy path a few pink centaury blossoms, 

 or a bramble or two, which a passing fritillary will 

 settle on to probe for nectar. It is the last place 

 one would look for any butterfly save the white 

 admiral. But let the watcher lie down by a little 

 glade, or where some stems have lately been cut by 

 the woodman whose work it is to rack out the lots 

 for sale, and, if this is a white admiral wood, he need 

 176 



