276 NOVEMBER 



of fallen leaves go to a wood where great clean-stemmed 

 beech trees build circular temples round the central pillar 

 and beneath the fretted roof. The floor is as red almost 

 as a seaside pool where the anemones and the coral sea 

 weeds flourish. The leaves, more resistant to weather 

 and time than any other, are almost metallic : they tinkle 

 before your feet ; like Virgil s golden bough, 



Et similis frondescit virga metallo* 



I have seen a cock pheasant, brilliant in plumage as a 

 peacock, crouch into such leaves and vanish : the leaves 

 gleamed with a responsive and protective colour. These 

 glowing leaves are a counterpane beneath which all sorts 

 of life find snug sleeping. Mice have nests and snug 

 runs. There are little stores of nutty food. Blackbirds 

 and tits in mid-winter save their starved lives by ferreting 

 in the storehouse and will scatter the leaves with as much 

 fury as an eddy of wind and make such a clatter that you 

 may stand over them almost and discover what booty 

 they seek. They will throw up old leaves, completely 

 perished except for the ribs ; and you may admire the 

 vertebrate pattern as you admire the filigree mullions of 

 the boughs above you. Winter is as rich with form as 

 summer with colour. 



If we must compare, the beech is the loveliest of all 

 leaves all through the year, during its time of crumpled 

 vernation, when the sating nap gives place to shining 

 smoothness, when the dark green flows back to the ac 

 quisitive branch and leaves the lime-made colours visible. 

 To-day, while yet St. Martin reigns, even the cherry 

 hedges are less splendid than arches of beech over some of 

 our roads and rides. The leaves part with their summer 

 green reluctantly; and the relic verdancy gives a light and 

 a glow to the canopy that no other tree can compass. 



