THE PATH IN THE WOOD 
21 I 
leaves into a darker green. The oak-apples, those marvellous 
products of the gall insects, are plainly visible — excrescences 
indeed upon the tree, but adding to its interest and beauty, and 
more prominent by far than the little green tassels which con- 
stitute the flowers. A dark and sombre yew, contrasting well 
with the young foliage of oak and birch, is lively with the sound 
of many birds, chiefly titmice of various species. They are 
sprightly little birds, and not so shy as many of our feathered 
friends. Occasionally the loud, harsh call of the pheasants 
draws attention, and promises future sport to the gunners when 
autumn shall come and make slaughter legal. 
A glance down upon the path will show a busy army. 
Backwards and forwards all the day long march the wood ants, 
to and from their citadel of fir-needles and other fallen rubbish, 
some bearing burdens that seem too unwieldy for their size, but 
staggering bravely along, and perseveringly surmounting the 
obstacles in their way. Sometimes two together will be tugging 
along a caterpillar four or five times as big as themselves. 
Their progress under their load may be slow, but they will not 
give in. They are soon lost in the undergrowth when they have 
crossed the path, but reappear wherever the ground is clear 
enough. Their ways in English woods are not always easily 
visible, but in the mountain pinewoods of Switzerland, where 
the undergrowth is scantier, they can be traced more easily and 
their persevering struggles with huge burdens be watched for a 
longer space of time. From the great ant-heap where they live 
there comes a distinct rustling sound, the noise of their many 
moving feet, and if some meddling stranger will stir up their 
citadel with a stick, with the rustling noise of their armies will 
be mingled the pungent smell of the acid that constitutes the 
poison of their weapons. • 
Looking off the path we see how the struggle of life and 
death is going on. Thickly matted on the ground are the dead 
bracken and the fallen leaves, dry and crisp in the spring sun- 
shine, but through the brown pushes the living green. The 
young bracken is gradually forcing its upward way, and patches 
of anemones and spurge and wood-sorrel deck the ground with 
white and green. White and fragile as the flower of the 
anemone is, it is a pity that visitors to the woods will not leave 
it in its place. No blossoms fade more quickly, and too often 
are they picked only to be thrown down by the wayside, wasted. 
Down in the dell in damper ground far more flowers are to be 
seen : marsh marigolds and lesser celandine, marsh violets and 
large dog-violets, and, beyond where the path rises again, the 
wild hyacinth and yellow pimpernel and ground ivy ; but the few 
primroses have passed their prime. 
A few weeks later, when the leafy month of June is bringing 
in the summer, the bees are busy on the buckthorn flowers, 
small and inconspicuous flowers to the human eye, but whose 
value to the insect hosts does not consist in size, but in sweet- 
