THE FOREST 179 



were still in the hunter's hands. So little is changed 

 since then. The deer are here still. Sit down 

 on the root of this oak (thinly covered with moss), 

 and on that very spot it is quite possible a knight 

 fresh home from the Crusades may have rested and 

 feasted his eyes on the lovely green glades of his own 

 unsurpassed England. The oak was there then, 

 young and strong; it is here now, ancient, but sturdy. 

 Rarely do you see an oak fall of itself. It decays 

 to the last stump; it does not fall. The sounds 

 are the same the tap as a ripe acorn drops, the 

 rustle of a leaf which comes down slowly, the quick 

 rushes of mice playing in the fern. A movement 

 at one side attracts the glance, and there is a squirrel 

 darting about. There is another at the very top 

 of the beech yonder out on the boughs, nibbling the 

 nuts. A brown spot a long distance down the glade 

 suddenly moves, and thereby shows itself to be a 

 rabbit. The bellowing sound that comes now and 

 then is from the stags, which are preparing to fight. 

 The swine snort, and the mast and leaves rustle as 

 they thrust them aside. So little is changed; 

 these are the same sounds and the same movements, 

 just as in the olden time. 



The soft autumn sunshine, shorn of summer 

 glare, lights up with color the fern, the fronds of 

 which are yellow and brown, the leaves, the gray 

 grass, and hawthorn sprays already turned. It 

 seems as if the early morning's mists have the power 



