The Woods in Winter. 41 



And for a man of education to descend to trapping 

 vermin, filling cartridges, and feeding pheasants all his 

 life would be a palpable absurdity with Australia 

 open to him and the virgin soil of Central Africa 

 eager for tillage. 



Neither is every man's constitution capable of 

 withstanding the wear and tear of a keeper's life. 

 I have delineated the more favourable side already ; 

 but it has its shadows. Robust health, power of 

 bearing fatigue, and above all of sustaining constant 

 exposure in our most variable climate, are essential. 

 No labourer is so exposed as the keeper : the labourer 

 does not work in continued wet, and he is sure of 

 his night's rest. The keeper is often about the best 

 part of the night, and he cannot stay indoors because 

 it rains. 



The woods are lovely in the sunshine of summer ; 

 they are full of charm when the leaves are bursting 

 forth in spring or turning brown with the early 

 autumn frosts ; but in wet weather in the winter 

 they are the most wretched places conceivable in 

 which to stroll about. The dead fern and the long 

 grass are soaked with rain, and cling round the 

 ankles with depressing tenacity. Every now and 

 then the feet sink into soddened masses of decaying 

 leaves — a good deal, too, of the soil itself is soft and 



