XATURE NOTES 
mark in the huge boulders that lie scattered everywhere around. 
Over this rough bed, the stream, swollen by days of incessant 
rain, thunders along, its brown peat-stained waters churned to 
the whitest spray as it forces its way in leaping cataracts among 
the rocks. The stepping-stones, where we cross so easily in 
July, are deep under feet of foam, and the lower boughs of the 
trees are washed and swayed by the flood. It is so sheltered 
that the gale, which has stripped the leaves on the slopes above, 
has spared .enough here to tint the gorge with gold and brown ; 
some of the oaks are still green, that birch is the purest lemon 
yellow, low-growing mountain ashes and alders have kept their 
summer clothing intact, and the thick undergrowth of briar and 
bramble is verdant as ever. Even more beautiful, perhaps, are 
the bare boughs of the hazel copse, the exquisite tender shades 
of which are such a subtle blending of purples and greys as to 
defy the cunningest brush that artist could wield, and, contrasted 
■with an occasional pine, holly, or ivy tree, make a dream of 
delicate colour. The boulders are almost completely covered 
with vivid green mosses, in sheets so thick and deep and 
compact that you can raise a yard at a time with a slight pull, 
some resembling tufted tassels, some the most delicate ferns, 
while others show the split cups of their seed-vessels like fairy 
goblets. Here and there among them we may find a tiny bright 
red toadstool or two, or some of the larger purple or orange 
varieties that have lingered on since October, or perhaps, on a 
hazel twig, the curious bird’s-nest fungus with its minute eggs 
packed neatly inside. The day being mild, a squirrel is taking a 
whiff of fresh air, flaunting his feathery tail from a fir tree above 
our heads, and disappearing suddenly into a hollow in the big 
oak, where, no doubt he has established cosy winter quarters. 
If we are very fortunate, we may even chance upon a dormouse’s 
nest under the moss and dead leaves, and, gently parting the 
cleverly woven little grass ball, can discover the owner, plump 
and sleek and beautifully clean, so sound asleep already that 
even the warmth of one’s hand will not induce him to open his 
eyes, though he squeals a shrill protest at our interference, which 
subsides gradually as we replace him once more in his carefully- 
constructed bedroom at the foot of the wych elm. 
Bird life is not very frequent. I do not think most of the 
birds like the dampness of this wood or the roar of the water: 
you would find twice as many on the open hillside above, 
though even here we may notice a dipper darting down the 
stream, a flight of long-tailed tits twittering noisily for a moment 
■or two in a tree-top, a wood-pigeon scared by our approach, the 
short, heavy, undulating flight of the great green woodpecker 
who “yaffles” as he disappears behind the tall ash, or an occa- 
sional heron sailing majestically towards the mountains. The 
cour. try folk say they go to fetch the rain, and it is a curious 
coincidence that they nearly always fly towards the quarter from 
whence one may expect a storm. On the bramble the unpicked 
