REVEALING NIGHT 289 



trotting with a carnage behind it, though the wheels 

 will for a long time be unheard. He is three miles 

 away when we hear him drop to a walk at a slight 

 hill, an indulgence that brings up a mental picture of 

 the whole turn-out low-wheeled dogcart, fat, middle- 

 aged horse, comfortable farmer rarely pressed for 

 time, well tucked behind rugs, and probably with 

 his spouse beside him. The trotting is resumed, and 

 after a while, just as we almost imagine the sound of 

 wheels, the equipage turns at the cross-roads and the 

 sounds recede. 



Though there is no moon, and the stars are blurred 

 in the canopy of cloud, we have become quite at 

 home in the field when we plunge into the compara- 

 tive gloom of the wood. Light trickles with some 

 freedom through the leafless boughs, but among the 

 hollies there is the very abysm of night. As we touch 

 their stiff skirts there is a flutter in the recess that, 

 absurd though it be, sends the heart into the mouth. 

 It is only a small bird disturbed in its roost. It gives 

 a drowsy chirrup, and we cannot make certain whether 

 it has gone up towards the stars or has put its head 

 under the other wing and gone to sleep again. A 

 belated fallow buck sounds his challenge not far off. 

 It is like the rattling of antlers on branches, or the 

 instrumental music that the great spotted woodpecker 

 makes in spring, but there is an undoubted vocal 

 quality that only that larynx-knotted throat can give. 



We do not imagine, as once we did, that it would 

 be easy to follow up the sound and get a view of the 

 champion. His other senses, like ours, are sharper, and 

 his eyesight not less keen by night than by day. He 

 changes quarters as silently as the owl, and we soon 

 19 



