580 SWEET CHESTNUT TREE. 



from lichen-covered stools standing in a bed of grey leaves. The red 

 and yellow leaves they carry are edged like a fish's fin. All about 

 in the copse huts with taggots for walls and a thatch of chips have 

 sprung up. Men and boys are cutting the Chestnut rods, which boys 

 inside the huts split for use. Neat bundles ready for the hooper 

 are stacked, and glisten white in the sunlight ; rougher jagged bundles 

 of chips ("bunts") lie near. At night the light of a lanthorn gleams 

 out from a hut where some woodman is cutting up the chips for 

 firewood (" kindling "). The raucous squall of a vixen and the hoot 

 of an owl come from the depth of the wood, and one hears the 

 slight rustle of some animal crossing the path. The old Oaks which 

 stand up among ihe Chestnut rods take fantastic forms dimly seen 

 against the blue-black sky. The wood is full of unseen life, and 

 the elves hold their revels. 



The greys and purples of the spring have changed to a mono- 

 tonous bright green. It is June, and the foxgloves are half as high 

 as the woodstacks. The Chestnut leaves begin to wear their summer 

 gloss. They are as large as one's foot, and form an impenetrable 

 barrier on either side of the path behind a border of sweet scented 

 bracken up to the thigh. You pass a row of coops and the young 

 pheasants bear witness to the eggs collected in the copse. 



The sultry heat of August beats down on the scorched bridle- 

 path — now a mere cutting between walls of dark green that shut out 

 the air. There is no sound of animal life, no sound of any kind, 

 until the massed clouds riding one against another bring a far-off" 



