When Woods are Bare. 177 



winds along in the shadow of the hill. These bare 

 rough banks are thick in spring-time with forests of 

 pale primroses, and the fresh green leaves of the sorrel. 

 On the shoulder of the hill up yonder is a clump of 

 feathery larches, among whose green spring shadows 

 the shy ringdove weaves her careless nest. Farther 

 on along the hillside rise the rugged outlines of the 

 grey limestone ramparts, in whose recesses rockdoves 

 breed, and among whose ancient yew-trees the bold 

 kestrel makes her home. 



High up in the west, their great wings dark against 

 the saffron of the wintry sky, a party of herons drift 

 slowly out to fish among the moorland ditches. 



All at once, from the dim shadows of the wood 

 yonder, where brown waves of bracken cluster round 

 the roots of stalwart beeches, and bright fungi hang 

 like coloured lamps about the moss-grown tree stumps, 

 comes the cry of a woodpecker. The next moment 

 he sweeps down from his cover to the tall sycamore 

 that stands like an outpost on the edge of the wood. 

 Scattered gleams of sunlight flicker on the golden stem, 

 as the branches sway gently in the wind, 



As a sylph of the air had traced them there, 

 And then dashed them away with her wing. 



The bird alights half-way up the tree, his figure sharply 

 outlined on the rare December blue. Clinging with 

 powerful claws to the trunk and supporting himself 

 with the stiff feathers of his tail, he peers into the 



12 



