From Fox's Earth 



warren. Something may or may not have 

 happened in the dark. Beyond grew a wood, 

 through which, at first, was scant shoulder-rubbing 

 passage. No sunlight penetrated the close thatch 

 of fir needles. One felt as though he would pull 

 a broom taper to help him through. The flash 

 of a magpie's wing crossed the gloom. Others 

 were there, lights of a purer spark. 



Where the boles thinned out to give more 

 space, oaks grew. The blaeberry crept out on 

 the wood floor. Countless pale pink bells rung 

 round the wiry stem, and under the oval leaves. 

 There was abundant promise of a table spread in 

 the wilderness. Such woods are common in the 

 ruder lowland parts and along the lower slopes of 

 hills. Under a rough bush a robin sat on her three 

 russet-hued eggs. The pink bells rung around 

 her. The wood softened into a great grove of 

 birches, closely packed as the firs, not stiff nor 

 dark, but infinitely light and graceful. In its firs 

 and birches and blaeberry flooring was it a Scots 

 wood. Among the birches sang many willow 

 warblers. This is our woodland migrant. 



Then the wood echoed with lively sounds. Not 

 laughter, nor telling of lightness of heart, but such 

 sounds as might be made by wild creatures at 

 play. The voices were young, from the throats 

 of boys, but not ordinary boys. The sounds broke 

 out again and rung through the wood. Past the 

 birches and against the light which told of the 



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