FROM BROCKENHURST TO LYNDHURST. 189 
buds. The wind is gently stirring the Alders, 
and the swallows are lazily flitting about, as if 
they, too, felt the heat. Away, on the opposite 
side of the stream, white blossoms float in the 
water, the bank being decked with the gold of 
clustering buttercups and the blue of the pim- 
pernel, whilst above the foliage of Alder and 
Willow is stirred by the breeze. 
But we must hie away from our cool resting- 
place. On the Brockenhurst side of this river 
bridge lie the village enclosures of homestead, 
park, and garden. On the other side is the open 
forest. 
Crossing the bridge we immediately plunge 
into the forest on our left, walking in at a narrow 
opening in the thicket, where a young Ash Tree 
has drawn itself up above a tangled mass of 
Hawthorn, gorse, and blackberry. For a few 
moments we follow a devious route, pressing 
through densely-grown shrubbery amongst a wild 
profusion of Blackthorn and Hawthorn, of furze— 
towering over our head—brake, dog-rose, and 
Honeysuckle. We have, in pursuing our path, to 
dip under a canopy of tangled Hawthorn, until 
