CHAPTER XIII 



HOMEWOOD 



IN the last chapter I asked the reader to accompany me along 

 a good stretch of the British coast-line, but I am reminded by a 

 recent stay at a rural retreat at home in Hertfordshire that 

 there is no need to go far away in search of wild nature. I 

 fully recognise that the observant traveller receives a first-hand 

 education in various departments of life, but I have nevertheless 

 a wholesome respect for those who, like Gilbert White of Selborne, 

 either, by force of circumstance or choice, restrict attention to 

 a careful survey of their own parish. 



It is appropriate, too, that Homewood should have a special 

 chapter accorded to it in this volume, for my friends there' were 

 the only ones who heard " My Life as a Naturalist " read when 

 in manuscript form. To their encouragement and appreciation 

 I hereby acknowledge my whole-hearted indebtedness. 



Homewood is, as its very name implies, a home in a wood ; 

 it is not the home-wood one often finds on large estates, where the 

 wood nearest the big house is so-called. Surrounded by fine 

 Oaks and sturdy Hornbeams, environed with pleasant gardens, 

 wreathed, at the time of my visit in early June, with blue of 

 Lupins and Cornflowers, flaring red of giant Pseonies, rich yellow 

 clusters of Corydalis, delicate pink Azaleas, and the rest, Home- 

 wood was a delightful demesne, in which a somewhat fatigued 

 author could spend a never-to-be-forgotten week-end, so as to 

 enjoy a mind restfulness from his literary labours. 



When I retired to rest on the first evening of my visit, the 

 weird churring of a Nightjar near my bedroom window was, of 

 itself, sufficient to remind me of the throbbing heart of the country 

 in which I was sojourning, and, at four a.m. next morning, a 

 Cuckoo was persistently calling from almost exactly the same 

 place occupied by the night bird during the cover of darkness. 

 After that auspicious awakening, surely nn appropriate welcome 

 for the birth of another glorious June day, there was restricted 

 slumber for even a tired naturalist. At the Cuckoo's challenge, 



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