MUSHROOMS. 6i 



is the extinction of the avenue or group. Perhaps the 

 temper of the times is to blame for this neglect : men look 

 only to the day and live fast. There is a sense of un- 

 certainty in the atmosphere of the age : no one can be sure 

 that the acorns he plants will be permitted to reach their 

 prime ; the hoofs of the ' iron horse ' may trample them 

 down as fresh populations grow. So the avenues die out, 

 and the keeper mourns to think that in the days to come 

 their place will be vacant. 



Suddenly he pauses in his walk, stoops, and points out 

 to me in the grass the white, smooth, round knob-like tops 

 of several young mushrooms which are pushing their way 

 up. He carefully covers these with some pieces of dead 

 bark and desiccated dung, so that none of ' them lurching 

 fellows as comes round shan't see 'em '-^with a wink at 

 his own cunning — so as to preserve them till they have 

 grown larger. He advises me never to partake of mush- 

 rooms unless certain that they have not grown under oak 

 trees : he will have it that even the true edible mushroom 

 is hurtful if it springs beneath the shadow of the oak. 

 And he is not singular in this belief. 



Chatting about trees, he points out one or two oaks, 

 not at all rotten, but split half-way up the trunk — the 

 split is perfectly visible — yet they have not been struck by 

 lightning ; and he cannot explain it. Looking back upon 

 the wood as we leave it with intense pride in his trees, he 

 gives me a rough version of the old story : how a knight 



