io6 
NATURE NOTES. 
which It is impossible to find the way, so many are the seductive 
paths which lead one astray, I came to a divided track. The 
other is so enchanting that I must explore it, yet how leave this 
delightful path ; I will go a little way and will return ; I will 
make a circuit. So I ascend a steep bank through the tangle 
and find myself in a turnip field — this to my great surprise, 
for at the moment in these wilds I had been unconscious of 
man’s dominion. But this turnip field is so charming that I 
cannot leave it. It is the flat top of a down, defended on three 
sides by the steep slopes of the woods — a sight for a camp — and 
these woods are a wild fruit garden. What an extraordinary 
abundance does Nature supply to her children ! The provision 
of man for his wants in the cultivated ground seems small beside 
this harvest of wood and coppice. I looked down upon groves 
of oaks loaded with acorns, which they bear sturdily, and great 
beeches, their pendulous branches heavy with mast. The 
hazels are showering down ripe nuts, the hawthorns are russet- 
red with fruit, providing a mealy berry for the blackbird, yet 
leaving a nut whose sweet kernel the squirrel, the hawfinch and 
mice of all kinds, know well how to extract. See the countless 
fruit of the briar roses, round and oval, crimson and coral red. 
Above all, the blackberries thrive here beyond any fruits that 
men can plant, now hanging in grape-like clusters, now holding 
their berries erect as though offering them to the birds. On the 
blackthorn the sloes are withered and almost sweet, still they 
keep their fine bloom. 
I pass on to a barley-stubble where partridges are feeding. 
They rise unwillingly and flutter to the turnips, and at the 
margin, drop at once like stones into the shelter. From this 
height Selborne is, not visible, so hidden is it in woods, but the 
Hanger shows its position and a blue wreath of smoke betrays 
it. I wander further ; reluctantly as I quitted the wood, I 
cannot leave the down. Everywhere the hops twine their 
aromatic garlands about the thorns and hazels, and the resinous 
odour is borne on the wind. The wild bryony climbs the trees 
which it loves to honour, and hangs high its wreaths of bright 
berries, itself then withering away. Here was a woman gather- 
ing elder-berries from a tree whose branches hung down with 
their load as though struck with a blight, oppressed with its own 
fertility. It was for wine that she wanted them, so she told me 
— a comforting drink on a cold night, and with sugar at i.td. the 
pound well worth making. She had made twelve gallons last 
week and meant to have as much more. Nuts, too, she had 
gathered, but now the wind was bringing them down. 
When I reached the valley and highway I found myself 
at Oakhanger, not much above the level of the Forest. The 
roads here are mended with the forest stone of which White 
speaks as imperishable; this use of it shows that its lasting 
qualities are now recognised. It is a coarse grit, very ferru- 
ginous, and stains the roads an ochre-red. In Selborne itself. 
