52 IN THE GREEN LEAF 



Where the glorious July sun catches the rough 

 projections of the great limbs and branches, 

 they show out for a few moments like bosses 

 of silver ; then the shadow dance goes on again 

 as before, until at last you look out before you 

 on one of the finest woodland scenes that it is 

 possible to see in the south of England. 



Our resting-place faces a vast coombe or 

 hollow which is covered with turf, and dotted 

 with thorn bushes ; not thickly, but they are 

 sprinkled over, just enough to break the mono- 

 tony of the turf. Here a bunch of the beau- 

 tiful bee-orchid can be gathered, and some 

 other plants of the same family. 



As to the honeysuckles that climb over the 

 thorns in profusion, the air is full of their rich, 

 sweet fragrance. It is a place to rest and 

 think in through the length of a summer's day, 

 stretched out on the deep carpet of dry mad- 

 der-brown leaves. 



Below us the chimneys of the coombe farm 

 show through the trees. We can see the pewits 

 flapping over the fields, and hear the pewit-wit- 

 wit-weet of the old birds, and the plaintive, 

 weak, quavering, and querulous we-e-e-e-eets 

 of the young birds now on the wing. 



Rich pasture meadows, well watered, sur- 



