64 
XATURE NOTES 
mossy paths, the branches often arching overhead, filtering the 
sunlight through the shading leaves. At unexpected turns they 
open out and glimpses of blue hills and shimmering misty 
distances meet the eye. Our favourite summer evening walk is 
up a slope and through glades one glowing mass of heather 
stretches, like red velvet where it is short, amethyst and ruby 
spikes where it grows as high as two and three feet. You climb 
upwards till, at the top, spreading branches frame a picture hard 
to match. Beyond the billowy masses of trees, above emerald 
meadows, on a lovely ridge, the red roofs of Tenterden town 
nestle among orchards and oak trees. The grand old church 
tower, built of Bethersden marble, rears its magnificent crocketed 
pinnacles high above its surroundings, a landmark to all the 
countryside. The level rays of the setting sun strike the crystals 
in the grey marble and turn it into a wondrous pile of mother-of- 
pearl and amethyst, exquisitely delicate and beautiful, and if 
backed by a storm-grey cloud the effect is quite ethereal. 
Living in a wood you are never lonely, never dull. The trees 
become your dear and intimate friends and companions ; their 
branches rustling in the breeze sing you songs without words. 
The birds give you morning and evening concerts. The glow- 
worms light their opal lanterns at your feet ; while the “ flitter- 
mice,’’ as bats are called in the Weald of Kent, spread their silky 
wings and gauzy ears against the starry sky. 
Nightjars abound in our woods, and on summer nights, if 
you imitate their notes, half a dozen at a time will hover round 
your head, making a curious noise with their wings, which they 
strike together over their heads in the position of angels’ wings in 
some old pictures, repeating all the time their whirring, jarring 
cry. They prey on the goat moth, who lays her eggs in the bark 
of trees, and whose ugly red larvae work such havoc to forest 
timber. 
No unclean thing defiles for long our woods, for huge ant-hills 
are frequent, and myriads of busy denizens from their mound 
cities rapidly remove dead rabbits and birds, leaving in a very 
few days no trace of them except a tiny pile of feathers, or shreds 
of fur. 
At sunset wild ducks wheel over head, quacking loudly with 
outstretched necks against the amber evening sky, reminding one 
of tenderly delicate Japanese paintings. Squirrels disport them- 
selves fussily up and down the fir trees and chase each other 
among the branches. Pheasants rustle under the tall bracken 
fronds and chortle high up in the boughs where they roost. 
Tour kinds of tits abound. Woodpeckers, red and green, tap 
the decaying trunks in search of grubs, while pigeons and turtle- 
doves break the stillness of summer mornings with their sooth- 
ing cooing, accompanied by the hoarse cry of the gaudy jay. 
Living in a wood tends to foster a friendly confidence be- 
tween all the inhabitants. Even a stately Persian cat we have 
only catches the rats and mice, and leaves our feathered friends 
alone, to our great joy. Our beautiful red setter watches the 
