360 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



Down the vivid green trunks of the beech, on the 

 other hand, dash veritable torrents, that have accumu- 

 lated from the labyrinth of boughs, the topmost of 

 which are quite lost in the mist. Their trunks are 

 marked by black streaks in the green, black as night 

 till the carefully focused eye sees in them the white 

 threads of hurrying waves. Some of the would-be 

 tributaries lose their way in the lower reaches, just 

 missing junction with the main stem by reason of 

 some awkward kink that sends them to the lower 

 side of the bough. So they drip in a white cascade 

 from the elbows of the tree, drilling miniature pocket- 

 holes through the loam to the gravel, and churning 

 their contents to a white froth. Below these dripping 

 elbows are the only dry stretches, running into deep 

 and cosy arm-pits, where the delicately over-winged 

 winter moth, or his fat, wingless spouse, may hang 

 in safety and wait for better flying weather. The 

 deeply corrugated oaks offer more frequent, though 

 more risky, havens, as testify the torn wings of the 

 male fluttering from the drenched web of the spider. 



Kicking very deeply in the beech leaves, we can 

 see how the rain has added many tones to their red. 

 The dry leaves that come up are pallid, half-painted 

 things by comparison. The bracken which yesterday 

 matched without fault the big red stag, to-day reveals 

 him like a lemon or orange, for if somehow he has 

 not managed to keep dry, his hair does not soak 

 up water like the dead vegetation. The bad weather 

 has soured his temper. Instead of throwing out his 

 maned chest, tossing his head, and pawing the ground 

 to intimate that he will not have his hinds disturbed, 

 he turns his back on the human intruder, and 



