286 WOODLANDERS AND FIELD FOLK 



self that evokes the sense of reverence which we feel 

 when standing face to face with Nature's finest 

 objects. We interpret ourselves rather than the 

 things about us. These are tangible, and we idealise 

 and create them afresh. 



Under floods of beechen green and shadows 

 numberless the warblers are singing of summer in 

 full-throated ease. These are in the deepest recesses 

 of the wood, and the sounds only faintly and at 

 intervals reach me. Quite a wealth of woodland 

 beauty is around. The leaves of the grey-boled 

 beech are of the most delicate green, as are the long 

 trailing tassels of the pine. Soft mosses cover the 

 floor of the wood. A small green warbler restlessly 

 flits among the tangled weeds. It complains, in 

 melancholy " tweet, tweet," that I have invaded 

 its haunt and am near its nest. The warbler and its 

 kind I have come to woo to pry into their secrets. 

 Show the bird that you partake of its nature and it 

 will trust you. The most shy and retiring ones 

 soon do this. And so I watch and wait and am 

 patient. 



Day by day, and for hours together, I have 

 watched the pretty incidents of a bird drama. A 

 pair of blue-tits have been searching out some hole 

 among the old elms, and it has been "house-hunting" 

 indeed. They have examined every hole and crevice 

 in wall and bole of tree, and have rejected each in 



