96 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



is pale and the woods are slow ; the cuckoo calls for 

 his leaves. 



Farther along the edge of the valley the beeches 

 thicken, and the turf is covered by the shrunken 

 leaves of last year. Empty hulls of beechmast crunch 

 under foot, the brown beech leaves have drifted a foot 

 deep against the trunk of a felled tree. Beech leaves 

 lie at rest in the cover of furze, sheltered from the 

 wind ; suddenly a little cloud of earth rises like dust 

 as a startled cock pheasant scrambles on his wings 

 with a scream. A hen follows, and rises steadily in a 

 long-drawn slanting line till near the tops of the 

 beeches, then rockets sharp up over the highest 

 branches, and descends in a wide sweeping curve 

 along the valley. In the glade among the beeches the 

 furze has grown straight up ten feet high, like sapling 

 trees, and flowers at the top, golden bloom on a dry 

 pole. There are more^ pheasants in the furze, so that, 

 not to disturb them, it is best to walk round and not 

 enter it. Every now and then there is a curious, half- 

 finished note among the trees — yuc, yuc. This great 

 hawthorn has a twisted stem ; the wood winds round 

 itself in a spiral. The bole of a beech in the sunshine 

 is spotted like a trout by the separate shadows of its 

 first young leaves. Tall bushes — almost trees — of 

 blackthorn are in full white flower ; the dark, leafless 

 boughs make it appear the whiter. Among the black- 

 thorn several tits are busy, searching about on the 

 twigs, and pecking into the petals ; calling loudly as 

 they do so. A willow- wren is peering into the bloom, 

 too, but silent for the moment. The blackthorn is 

 much lichened, the lichen which is built into the 



