2 gS 
THE ESSEX NATURALIST. 
Passing over what were once trimly kept lawns and flower 
gardens, now run wild and rank, rabbits skip across our path 
as we strike away to a wood gate that we see through the shrubs. 
We find it locked, but the iron-work has half dropped away and 
the gate seems not to have been opened for twenty years. But 
we have no great difficulty in gaining the coverts, where we meet 
the old woodman with his half dozen sturdy attendants. He 
regrets that he cannot go round with us and show us the beauties 
of the place, but it is pay day and he must be off to settle with 
his men. 
However, we want no guide, so wishing him good-day we 
stroll on, well pleased to have our time to ourselves, and silence* 
without which few birds are seen to advantage. 
In sheltered spots the broad arrow-shaped leaves of Lords 
and Ladies are already well above ground, though this is only 
the third of February, and blue bells are making a green carpet. 
Mosses dislike the smoke of London, and only a few of the 
hardy ones decorate our suburban neighbourhood, but we find 
several in fine fruit—the “undulated hair moss” being in great 
abundance. Before us on the lonely margin of the lake that we 
can now see stretching away in winding reaches hemmed in with 
wood, is a green slope that makes us look with smiling eyes ; 
it is gemmed all over with the ” Chaste snowdrop, venturous 
harbinger of spring and pensive monitor of fleeting years”—• 
very beautiful, beside the old boathouse now falling somewhat to 
decay, with the grotto, where, years ago, merry parties gathered 
and watched the view over the fine stretch of waters. 
As we cautiously thread our way among the trees the nut¬ 
hatch makes the woods echo with his clear loud call; tit-mice 
are busy searching for their hidden prey concealed in the crevices 
of the bark ; a golden crested wren flits, uttering its small note* 
before us, and blackbirds and thrushes fly with scared chatter 
from our approach. Now we skirt the margin of the lake, putting 
up dozens of moorhens that flutter over the surface, just tipping 
the water with their long toes as they pass. 
But what is that roar like the fall of a distant cascade ? At 
first it is a mystery, as surely no waterfall can exist in this level 
region, but a few steps further, and we hear the high clear notes 
of the starling above the tumult, and now we see the trees 
before us covered, as though with black foliage, with countless 
