A WOOD RAMBLE IN APRIL 27 



and tipped with a reddish-purple that recalls the 

 veining of the petals. Each of these has a touch of 

 clear yellow on its inner base that sets off the 

 bunch of tiny whitish stamens. 



The brilliant yellow-green leaf is a trefoil of three 

 broad little hearts, each joined at its point to the 

 upright stalk by a tiny stalklet just long enough to 

 keep the leaf- divisions well apart. In the young 

 foliage the leaflets are pressed down to the stalk and 

 folded together. The mature ones also fold and 

 sleep at night. Each little heart does not fold upon 

 itself, but each half is closely pressed against the 

 half of its neighbour, so that the whole looks like a 

 blunt three-winged arrow-head or bolt-head. 



A few minutes more and I am out of the sombre 

 Spruces, and again in the more open woodland, full 

 of song of bird and movement of free air. The wood- 

 path, following a nearly level contour of the steep 

 hillside, dips across a sudden transverse gully. It 

 is an old dead road or pack-horse track, one of 

 many that scar the hillsides and indent the heathery 

 wastes. A forgotten road of a day long since gone 

 by ; probably never made and certainly never mended. 

 Centuries ago slightly hollowed, first by foot of man 

 and laden or ridden beast, then grown more wide and 

 deep by side-crumbling of sandy earth and sweeping 

 wash of sudden storm-flood. In the steep descent of 

 this old dead lane one can read the whole history of 

 its making, down to the rich valley-bottom where the 



