CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 351 



sound as loud as on a metalled road. Now and then 

 I pass plantations of young firs ; other underwood there 

 is none the beech brooks no lowlier rival. As I 

 gain at last the highest crest I pause for breath and to 

 enjoy the " pleasure in the pathless woods." The dogs 

 have rambled off, probably on the cold scent of a 

 wandering deer, and the silence is absolute. These 

 woods seem almost birdless in winter. Now and then 

 a jay dashes off with his harsh note of alarm, but 

 except an occasional wren, these are all the feathered 

 foresters to be met with. 



But the forest is not uninhabited for all that. 

 Resuming my walk I reach a little frozen pool. Ah, 

 the monarch of the forest has been here lately. All 

 round the mud is disturbed by footmarks, and here is 

 the mark where a great side wallowed in content. 

 The trees around, too, are coated with mud where 

 the bristly wanderers rubbed themselves after their 

 bath, and on the bark of one of them fresh scars 

 testify to the fact that at least one boar accompanied 

 the "sounder." 



Now the forest is broken by a road skirted by a 

 few acres of cultivation. Crossing this, and passing 

 through some ten-year-old firs, I am in the beech- 

 woods again, and here again are marks of life. The 

 roe-deer have been scraping down the moss from; the 

 beech-trunks with their feet. Times must be hard 

 with them just now. 



But I am approaching my goal, an old Roman 

 camp, known to the natives as the Altburg. Surely 

 this is the most picturesque, as it is probably the least 



