THE CONTRAST 



THE wealth of foliage, leaves at their largest, is 

 responsible for the gloom of the wood; beneath the 

 trees all is hi shade, though dappled with circular light 

 patches, where a beam has found a pinhole or crack to 

 penetrate. It is difficult to push one's way through the 

 undergrowth, the saplings are so tough, and brambles, 

 armed with clinging, tearing hooks, trail everywhere in 

 the waist-high grass. The litter oi old reed-stems is 

 hidden by the new growth, but jagged broken staves wait 

 for the unwary foot, and the ancient stocks of cut osiers 

 cause one to stumble; it is easy to step from the wood into 

 the water, so similar is the terrestrial and aquatic vegeta- 

 tion. Purple and yellow loosestrife push their showy 

 heads above the sedges; young willows and birches are 

 surrounded by reeds and rushes. Above the sapling 

 sycamores stand the staunch old oaks, the graceful 

 birches, and the sombre firs ; nearer the water are gnarled 

 willows and alders, whose roots straggle out over the water, 

 for winter storms have washed the soil between them. 



Few birds are singing, though they are by no means 

 silent; call notes, to and from youngsters, resound on every 

 hand. Yet in the dense leafage the birds are barely 

 visible. We catch the flash of the white wing-bar of the 

 chaffinch which is hunting aphides in the tops; we hear 

 the wheezy, insistent cries of juvenile starlings, the luit 

 of the anxious willow wren, the low chitter of the reed- 

 warbler near the water's edge. The dunnock, in neat 

 quaker garb, pipes beneath the evergreens as it turns 

 over the leaves of last autumn; the great tit calls sharply, 



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