NOVEMBER 227 



afternoon in Sole Wood, I was delighted to go 

 with her. 



Living within a few minutes' walk of Sole, not to 

 go there at least once a week is a positive sin of 

 omission. It is a beautiful place. The short herbage 

 where it remains is a wonderful ochreous tint, as 

 though laid on with opaque colour. Large warm 

 brown patches of fir needles carry on the tone 

 scheme, and the zigzag paths trodden for short cuts 

 by farm labourers passing through are of the same 

 brown. Most of the trees are Scotch firs, but there 

 are large spaces filled up with the pale yellow of 

 larches, shading back to a delicate green which 

 blends them into the firs. Beeches and hornbeams 

 also are a glorious colour, and the acres of six-foot 

 fern that reach far away over the hilly ground, and 

 retire from other parts in favour of heather and 

 the yellow grass, give softness to the wood. Such 

 an uneven piece of ground it is, sweeping down to 

 a hollow in which a small rush-fringed pond 

 reflects the sky's blue, and lends itself to endless 

 imaginings of extent until you come close to it and 

 realise its narrow limits. The overflow runs away 

 down the hill, still hiding itself in the midst of 

 woods, and tradition has it that a communication 

 exists between this pond and the river in the valley 

 a mile away. To prove the matter, local tradition 

 continues the tale by telling of a duck which, many 

 years since, was thrust under the water at the point 

 where the subterranean passage was supposed to 

 have its beginning, and was subsequently found 

 swimming gaily on the distant river. The evidence 

 has never been considered inadequate, and the point 



