The Postern Gate, 69 



out in the gloaming, and frisk along the strip of grass 

 that skirts the highway; perhaps a weasel may run 

 hastily across, and shrews are faintly heard among the 

 tangle of the banks. 



But the real life of the woodland is still unseen ; 

 save for their voices, the tenants of the sylvan sanc- 

 tuaries make little sign. 



Along the broad paths that have been cleared 

 through the thickets you may draw nearer to the 

 tenants of the wood. Through the bushes peer the 

 bright eyes of rabbits ; the ground is scratched and 

 scarred by their industrious feet ; the light earth 

 from their burrows is heaped high under the hazels. 

 From a rocky hollow overhung with holly boughs a 

 blackbird dashes out ; there is her nest, deftly cradled 

 in a coil of knotted ivy-stems. A wren, too, a mere 

 ball of brown, seems to fall from an ivied tree-stump, 

 and goes singing down the path before you. 



Now the pathway wanders along under the hill in 

 the shade of stately beeches, wearing now their very 

 loveliest of May attire. Clustering fir-trees mingle 

 their dark foliage with the graceful plumes of the 

 larch. In a yew bough drooping low, a pair of gold- 

 crests have woven, among the slender twigs, their tiny 

 nest. 



Still greener grows the path. The foot falls noise- 

 less on the mossy way. A wood-warbler swinging 

 overhead, conscious of no intrusion, utters now and 

 then his hasty little gushes of song, or calls with 



