IN ^OR'SURr HOL'LOIT 59 



vanish in the fuller majesty of June. June will throw 

 a deeper shadow under these old elms, but their delicate 

 drapery will never be again so fresh and fair. The oak 

 and ash still lag behind, though the oak at least is swiftly 

 coming into leaf, and there will be, by the end of the 

 month, cover enough for the figure of a man among the 

 leaves alone, though Prince Charles's hiding place was 

 on the broad top of a pollard a much more effectual 

 screen from the eyes of Roundhead scouts than the foliage 

 of the greenest oak that ever grew. 



Much faster than the foliage of the grey ash saplings 

 grow the dark leaves of the bryony that coils about their 

 stems. Young sprays of woodbine, too, find their way 

 far up among the branches, and like the bryony follow 

 the sun from east to west as they wind about the trees. 

 Soft and tender now at starting, those lithe young stems 

 will cut deep into the boughs that help them upward. 



The wind that stirs among the thickets brings with it 

 all the perfumes of the woodland ; the sweet odour of 

 unfolding leaves, breath of sweetbriar and of woodruff, 

 and the fragrance of the graceful larch boughs whose 

 blossoms are hardening into smooth brown cones. 



Everywhere in the clearings, and even in the green 

 heart of the underwood, summer flowers are glowing. 

 Stray handfuls of bluebells here and there lend little to 

 the landscape, for all their grace and heavy perfume. 

 But when in broad masses they fill the hollows in the 

 wood, cluster on the slopes, and spread far out across 

 the open spaces, they seem like a dark blue mist floating 

 on a sea of green. The flowers of the wild arum the 



