232 HAMPSHIRE DAYS 



trunks would catch the level beams and shine like fiery 

 pillars, and the roof thus upheld would look darker and 

 gloomier by contrast. With the passing of that red 

 light, the lively bird-notes would cease, the trees would 

 give forth a more solemn, sea-like sound, and the day 

 would end. 



My days, during all the time I spent at Wolmer, 

 when I had given up asking questions, and my poor 

 old woman had ceased cudgelling her brains for lost 

 memories, were spent with the birds. The yaffle, night- 

 jar, and turtle-dove were the most characteristic species. 

 Wolmer is indeed the metropolis of the turtle-doves, 

 even as Savernake is (or was) that of the jays and jack- 

 daws. All day long the woods were full of the low, 

 pleasing sound of their cooing: as one walked among 

 the pines they constantly rose up in small flocks from 

 the ground with noisy wings, and as they flew out into 

 some open space to vanish again in the dark foliage, 

 their wings in the strong sunlight often looked white as 

 silver. But the only native species I wish now to speak 

 of is the teal as I found it a little over five years ago. 

 In Wolmer these pretty entertaining little ducks have 

 bred uninterruptedly for centuries, but I greatly fear 

 that the changes now in progress the increase of the 

 population, building, the larger number of troops kept 

 close by, and perhaps, too, the slow drying up of the 

 marshy pools will cause them to forsake their ancient 

 haunts. 



By chance I very soon discovered their choicest 



