AN AUTUMN RAMBLE 
20 7 
tered portions of our country Sir Walter Besant has dealt with 
the Scillies, and Mr. Hall Caine with Manxland. What will 
writers do when the county characteristics are “ crushed out 
by the greater weight of nationality ? ” 
Battersea, S.IT. Walter Johnson. 
AN AUTUMN RAMBLE. 
CARCELY a cloud is to be seen in the blue sky, the 
sun is shining, and the morning mist is quickly dis- 
appearing before its genial warmth. High over our 
heads a lark is singing as rapturously as though 
summer, not winter, were at hand. 
But as we leave the road and cross the dew-drenched field, 
there are unmistakable signs of autumn. The hedgerow is a 
study in colour : scarlet chains of bryony berries twine them- 
selves round the bushes and glisten in the sunshine ; and black- 
berries, red, purple, and black seem growing everywhere. The 
brambles fling their long trailing branches (covered with leaves 
which are just beginning to turn crimson) around the bushes, 
and mingle with the lovely foliage and red fruit of the wild 
rose. Here are a few late honeysuckle blooms climbing up 
the hedge, and down under the sheltering bushes on the bank 
nestle some hart’s-tongue and polypody ferns. But there are 
not many flowers left ; only a few sprays of ragwort which 
make a patch of gold among the grasses, and two or three small 
poppies, waving their heads disconsolately in the breeze. 
Our path leads to a wood which glows with different shades 
of red, yellow and brown, varied by an occasional touch of 
sombre green. Two jays fly screaming from tree to tree, a 
peewit gives a sad weird cry, and a wood-pigeon rises from 
the field and beats the air with his noisy wings. But when 
we enter the wood itself there is silence, not a sound can be 
heard but that of an occasional acorn, as it comes “ pattering 
to the ground.” Now the silence is broken by a rustling among 
the dead leaves, a squirrel is running towards us, but on catch- 
ing sight of us he darts up the nearest pine tree chattering 
angrily as he goes. It is difficult to watch him, as he leaps 
nimbly from one branch to another, for his fur closely resembles 
the colour of the trees. 
As we walk through the bracken under the oaks and beeches, 
a breath of wind blows through the trees and a shower of gold 
and brown leaves falls upon us. In this holly tree (flaming 
with scarlet berries) is the thrush’s nest that we found last 
spring. Then it had five blue eggs in it, and was neat and 
trim looking : now it contains nothing but dead leaves, and has 
a decidedly untidy and damp appearance. Further on in thick 
