SWEET CHESTNUT TREE. 



THE CHESTNUT COPSE. 



N the murky airs of a winter's morning the bridle-path 

 through the copse lies like a grey-white thread, scarcely 

 defined by the bordering shoots of the gnarled Chestnut 

 stools. The bunches of dried leaves, stiff with hoar- 

 frost, crackle under foot, and layers of ice between the powdered 

 grass - tufts yield with a miniature report. With the dawn the 

 deathly chill begins to lilt, and the Chestnut shoots on the edge of 

 the path stand silhouetted against a mass of others which cover the 

 slope. There is the twitter of birds and the song of a robin. Soon 

 shafts of sunlight make the pathway glitter, and long blue shadows 

 fall across it from every clump of grass. The Irost gives way, and 

 footsteps in the grass leave a wet green track. A crowd of tits 

 are busy with the handful of corn the keeper threw out as he 

 went by. 



When the open land is swept by March winds, the sheltered 

 ilope beside the bridlepath in the c ipse is gilded with daffodils, and 

 the path itself outlined by massed primroses. 



The delicate purples and greys of the Chestnut shoots blend 

 with the distant hills ; the shoots, with their vigorous growth, rise 



