WOLMEK FOKEST 225 



there is no bright colour, except that of the earth 

 itself in some naked spot. The water of the sluggish 

 boggy streamlets in the forest, tributaries of the well- 

 named Dead Water, takes a deep red or orange hue 

 from the colour of the soil. The sand abounds with 

 ironstone, which in the mass is deep rust-red and 

 purple coloured. When crushed and pulverised by 

 traffic and weather on the roads, it turns to a vivid 

 chrome yellow. In the hot noonday sun the straight 

 road that runs through the forest appeared like a 

 yellow band or ribbon. That was a curious and novel 

 picture, which I often had before me during the ex- 

 cessively dry and windy weather in May the vast 

 whity-blue, hot sky, without speck or stain of cloud 

 above, and the dark forest covering the earth, cut 

 through by that yellow zone, extending straight away 

 until it was lost in the hazy distance. Even stranger 

 was the appearance when the wind blew strongest and 

 raised clouds of dust from the road, which flew like 

 fiery yellow vapours athwart the black pines. 



In a small house by the roadside in the middle of the 

 forest I found a temporary home. My aged landlady 

 proved a great talker, and treated me to a good deal of 

 Hampshire dialect. Her mind was well stored with 

 ancient memories. At first I let her ramble on without 

 paying too much attention ; but at length, while speak- 

 ing of the many little ups and downs of her not un- 

 eventful life, she asked me if I knew Selborne, and then 

 informed me that she was a native of that village, and 



