JAM-MAKING n 



been reminded of them this autumn when I have 

 taken my favourite walks to see what blackberries 

 I could find. I think in this part of the world 

 the thrushes and I seem to know the bramble- 

 bushes better even than the children, but probably 

 this is because Saturday is the only free day from 

 school and they prefer to search blackberry pre- 

 serves that are nearer home than my distant 

 haunts ; perhaps, too, their mothers do not trouble 

 to make jam and so do not encourage the children 

 to pick them. 



The place I go to is what the Irish would call a 

 " boreen," a wide grass track with great ups-and- 

 downs of surface and old rut-marks in it. High 

 hedges upon either side unite an irregular avenue 

 of oaks and other trees, so that it forms a sheltered 

 walk in autumn. Here are bright red hips and 

 haws, black-berried privet, and heaps of long 

 bramble trailers with blackberries in that full, 

 bright, glistening condition that makes the mouth 

 water, even when one is past one's teens. A gate 

 is at the end, and leaning over this, looking away 

 from hills and downs, one can see a stretch of 

 marshland that forms the commencement of the 

 great Weald. Here, with soft green grazing land all 

 round it, great wide brooks, and an ancient moat, 

 stands up solitary and rather forbidding the 

 ancient tower belonging to the Pelhams. This was, 

 no doubt, where the " boreen " led, and many 

 must have been the picturesque cavalcades and 

 processions that rode along it across the wind- 

 swept marshes to seek hospitality in this strong- 

 hold. Sussex roads are proverbial for sticky mud 



