IN A SUSSEX HANGER 95 



them, like magic, for they seem to come from nowhere, 

 up spring the primroses, the anemones, the bluebells. 

 The wild strawberries come there, redder, larger, and 

 more luscious than anywhere else. The blackberries 

 of a hundred years ago are reincarnated as blueberries, 

 early, large-lobed, with a rich bloom, generous as gar- 

 den fruit. Then from the sawn stumps of the timber 

 trees, shoot up long, clean rods, that stand in crowded 

 fascicles and spread over the interspaces like the 

 sheaves of wheat growing from plants the hoe's-width 

 apart. The nightingale comes back after an absence 

 of fifty generations ; the wood becomes once more a 

 hanger, and still more a hanger than it was before the 

 timber grew. 



Our Sussex hanger is in the maturest stage, or shall 

 we say in all the stages at once ? The oaks that were 

 too staggy to be worth cutting down are still here. 

 The stools near them have not sprouted, for the tyranny 

 of overhanging leaves in June forbids. But the prim- 

 roses, anemones, and bluebells can amply develop their 

 beauty before the oak-leaves come. We push through 

 the stiff rods of the stool-growth with difficulty. They 

 spread out against us, lock fingers against us, thrash at 

 us, force us aside, so that we are continually walking 

 round half-circles when we aim at diameters. But 

 clearer sky is ahead, and we fight on, to come out 

 with a gasp of wonder into one of these oak-sheltered 

 spaces starred to the brim with white and butter- 

 coloured flowers. The flick of the last envious stool- 

 rod has vanished, and ours is the most perfect Sabbath 

 peace in our garden of Eden open to the full warmth 

 of sunshine, the full ecstasy of blue sky, sheltered from 

 whatever wind may be blowing. 



