The Open Air 



tion, and irritating under the circumstances. As it 

 was repeated persistently, however, the reply was at 

 length given, in no very good humour, and wine 

 chosen. Forthwith putting down his gun, the inter- 

 rogator pushed in among the underwood, and from a 

 cavity concealed beneath some bushes drew forth a 

 bottle of champagne. He had several of these stores 

 hidden in various parts of the domain, ready whichever 

 way the chance of sport should direct their footsteps. 



Now the dry wild parsnip, or " gicks," five feet 

 high, stands dead and dry, its jointed tube of dark 

 stem surmounted with circular frills or umbels; the 

 teazle heads are brown, the great burdocks leafless, 

 and their burs, still adhering, are withered; the 

 ground, almost free of obstruction, is comparatively 

 easy to search over, but the old sportsman is too 

 cunning to bury his wine twice in the same place, 

 and it is no use to look about. No birds in last 

 year's nests the winds have torn and upset the 

 mossy structures in the bushes; no champagne in 

 last year's cover. The driest place is under the firs, 

 where the needles have fallen and strew the surface 

 thickly. Outside the wood, in the waggon-track, the 

 beech leaves lie on the side of the mound, dry and 

 shrivelled at the top, but stir them, and under the top 

 layer they still retain the clear brown of autumn. 



The ivy trailing on the bank is moist and freshly 

 green. There are two tints of moss; one light, the 

 other deeper both very pleasant and restful to the 

 eye. These beds of moss are the greenest and bright- 

 est of the winter's colours. Besides these there are 

 ale-hoof, or ground-ivy leaves (not the ivy that climbs 

 trees), violet leaves, celandine mars, primrose mars, 

 foxglove mars, teazle mars, and barren strawberry- 

 leaves, all green in the midst of winter. One tiny 



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