A HOUSE IN A IVOOl) 
65 
pheasants picking up the ants under the pine trees with genial 
interest, though beyond the home precincts he is such a keen 
sportsman. 
On one side of our wood lies a hop garden belonging to the 
red-roofed farm which adds such a homey charm to the view 
from the house. The picking of the vines is a most picturesque 
sight, and when the wind blows from that direction the smell of 
the drying hops in the quaint white-capped oasthouse is wafted 
across the valley and brings over one a delicious sleepy sen- 
sation on a hot September afternoon. 
Winter deals gently with our corner of the Weald of Kent. 
Snow powders occasionally the pine branches, but is seldom 
heavy enough to break off the russet foliage of the scrub oak ; 
blackbirds and thrushes find plenteous fare under the fallen 
leaves. Robins hop into the verandah and sing us cheery thanks 
for crumbs. A frost embroiders with silver the dead bracken 
fronds, and each tint and outline of the distance stands out in- 
finitely clear against the wintry sky. 
On rainy, windy days, the tree-tops sway till the branches 
seem lashing themselves into impotent fury against some unseen 
foe, raindrops flash and splash on the broad glass verandah 
panes, and one sits in the inglenook and listens to the blustering 
roar of the gale, rejoicing in the bright leaping flames from dry 
oak logs on the wide red-brick hearth. 
But, of all seasons, spring is the most enchanting in our wood. 
Among the still brown branches of the oaks and chestnuts, the 
birch first unfolds its tiny leaflets, and soon a delicate blush of 
faintest green pervades and penetrates the whole scene. Then 
feathery larches hang out their rose-pink tassels, and the oaks 
and ashes burst their silken buds until the wood gleams with 
every tint of the green and golden gamut of colour ; bushes of 
broom and furze add their flames of glorious yellow bloom. 
One’s eyes are positively dazzled with the glittering sheen and 
one seems to hear the new-born leaves clapping their little hands 
in glee as the soft spring wind passes over them. In the open- 
ings where last year the wood was cut, great tufts of pale prim- 
roses carpet the ground ; these are succeeded by a wealth of 
blue-bells, till one fancies a bit of blue sky has fallen in love with 
Mother Earth and got entangled in the tree-stems. Mossy 
stumps are draped with the fairy cups of white and purple veined 
wood sorrel ; its lovely trefoil foliage enamelling the velvet 
cushions on which it grows. 
On harsh east-wind days we can wander through the glades 
and up and down the slopes in our wood, completely sheltered 
from the ruder blasts, and sitting in the warm spring sunshine 
one is deluded into fancying summer is come until one ventures 
forth beyond the secluded shelter of our beloved woods. And so 
every season has its delights and joys of sight and sound, and 
one thanks God that there are still such havens of rest left in 
Old England as the wood in which we have built our nest. 
Emily Conyabeare-Craven. 
