NATURE NOTES 
132 
two or three aged willows. On the heath, a thicket of hawthorn 
and birch, backed by an immemorial swamp, divides the limits 
of cultivation from the old fortification known as Caesar’s Camp. 
At the end of this shady avenue runs the Beverley Brook, 
the ancient home of beavers ; it takes a straight course through 
the paradise of Kingston Vale. Beyond the valley rise the 
wooded uplands of Richmond Park, and on the south-west is 
“ the declyning down of Coombe Park,” where, in Leland’s 
time, a Roman villa was discovered. 
All round the clearing the gorse pods are crackling as if a 
miniature salute of guns were being fired. Delicious honey- 
suckle sends forth its fragrance. The blackberry is in full 
bloom, and the honey bees from the farm are thereout sucking 
no small advantage. Already there are signs of late summer ; 
the oak leaves are dull and dark, and by their torn and folded 
aspect betray the ravages of gall flies and leaf-rollers. Some 
of the birch leaves have turned to a lemon tint. The sloes are 
well-formed, but on the wild cherry of the hedgerow little fruit 
is seen, compensation being, however, afforded by the charm of 
the delicately scarred ruddy stem. The somewhat uncommon 
tree or shrub, close by, is the alder buckthorn ; it has glossy 
entire leaves, and its bunches of drupes are tinged with a faint 
pink. On the close turf are yellow tormentil, purple sandwort, 
and bird’s foot trefoil, sulphur and orange. These are the 
lowliest members ; above them rise the red whorled panicles of 
the sheep’s sorrel dock. High above these, on the edge of the 
clearing, is a strong breastwork of bracken. 
Nature is never silent. The Spanish proverb quaintly says ; 
“ He that hath eyes beneath his eyebrows shall learn as long as 
he lives, and shall see what he shall see.” The nature student 
may well supplement this by the German adage : “ One sees 
only what one knows” — a reminder of the truth that we must 
know what to look for ere we find it. Listening for birds, the 
metallic notes of the chiff-chaff are found to predominate, whilst 
the yellow-hammer, defying heat and the sickness which comes 
of change of plumage, cries at regular intervals for “ a little, 
little bit of bread and no-oo-oo chee-eese.” Occasionally the 
rusty, creaking song of the corn-bunting breaks in ; the sound 
is like the jingling of a bunch of keys. Then, at a distance, the 
plaintive yeek of the greenfinch keeps up a chime with the scold- 
ing gaa, gaa, of the whitethroat. To complete the chorus, a 
pair of stonechats perch on the wire fence, and by ceaseless 
short journeys from gorse bush to fence and back again, attempt 
to lure one from their nest : ‘‘ wi-chic, wi-choc, all gone, all 
gone.” They jerk their bodies and tails tirelessly, but they need 
not fear. Who is likely to explore the ground in the prickly 
recesses of that furze bush, and emerge panting, hot, and torn ? 
Sing on, splendid fellow of the black head and chestnut breast ! 
A different note now is carried across the glade. It is the 
loud, cjear, ringing cry of the green woodpecker, or “ rain bird.” 
