The only spot about the Chace where the wind-anémones grew was in a small detached copse of ash-poles nearly a mile from the great woods.  Between the stoles, which were rather far apart, the ground was quite covered in spring with dark-green vegetation, so that it was impossible to walk there without treading down the leaves of bluebells, anémones, and similar woodland plants.  But if you wished to see the anémones in their full beauty it was necessary to visit the copse frequently; for if you forgot it, or delayed a fortnight, very likely upon returning you would find that their fleeting loveliness was over.  Their slender red stems rise but a few inches, and are surrounded with three leaves; the six white petals of the cup-shaped flower droop a little and have a golden centre.  Under the petal is a tinge of purple, which is sometimes faintly visible through it.  The leaves are not only three in number, but are each cut deeply thrice; they are hardy, but the flower extremely delicate.

On the banks dividing the copse from the meadows around it the blue dog-violets, which have no perfume, often opened so large and wide as to resemble pansies.  They do not appear like this till just as their flowering time is almost over.  The meadows by the copse were small, not more than two or three acres each.  One which was marshy was white for weeks together with the lady’s-smock or cuckoo-flower.  The petals of these flowers are silvery white in some places, in others tinted with lilac.  The hues of wild flowers vary with their situation:  in shady woodlands the toadflax or butter-and-eggs is often pale — a sulphur colour; upon the Downs it is a deep and beautiful yellow.  In a ditch, of this marshy meadow was a great bunch of woodruff, above whose green whorls the white flowers were lifted.  Over them the brambles arched, their leaves growing in fives, and each leaf prickly.  The bramble-shoots, as they touch the ground, take root and rise again, and thus would soon cross a field were they not cut down.

Pheasants were fond of visiting this copse, following the hedgerows to it from the Chace, and they always had one or more nests in it.  A green woodpecker took it in his route, though he did not stay long, there not being many trees.  These birds seem to have their regular rounds; there are some copses where they are scarcely ever heard.  They prefer old trees; where there is much large and decaying timber, there the woodpeckers come.  Such little meadows as these about the copse are the favourite resort of birds and the very home of flowers — more so than extensive woods like the Chace, or the open pastures and arable fields.  Thick hedgerows attract birds, and behind such cover their motions may be watched.  There is, too, more variety of bush and tree.

In one such hedgerow leading from the copse the maple-bushes in spring were hung with the green flowers which, though they depend in their season from so many trees, as the oak, are perhaps rarely observed.  The elder-bushes in full white bloom scented the air for yards around both by night and day; the white bloom shows on the darkest evening.  Besides several crab-stoles — the buds of the crab might be mistaken for thorns growing pointed at the extreme end of the twigs — there was a large crab tree, which bore a plentiful crop.  The lads sharpen their knives by drawing the blade slowly to and fro through a crab-apple; the acid of the fruit eats the steel like aquafortis.  They hide stores of these crabs in holes in the hayricks, supposing them to improve by keeping.  There, too, they conceal quantities of the apples from the old orchards, for the fruit in them is often almost as hard and not much superior in flavour to the crab.  These apples certainly become more mellow after several months in the warm hay.

A wild ‘plum,’ or bullace, grew in one place; the plum about twice the size of a sloe, with a bloom upon the skin like the cultivated fruit, but lacking its sweetness.  Yet there was a distinct difference of taste:  the ‘plum’ had not got the extreme harshness of the sloe.  A quantity of dogwood occupied a corner; in summer it bore a pleasing flower; in the autumn, after the black berries appeared upon it, the leaves became a rich bronze colour, and some when the first frosts touched them curled up at the edge and turned crimson.  There were two or three guelder-rose bushes — the wild shrub — which were covered in June with white bloom; not in snowy balls like the garden variety, but flat and circular, the florets at the edge of the circle often whitest, and those in the centre greenish.  In autumn the slender boughs were weighed down with heavy bunches of large purplish berries, so full of red juice as to appear on the point of bursting.  As these soon disappeared they were doubtless eaten by birds.

Besides the hawthorn and briar there were several species of willow — the snake-skin willow, so called because it sheds its bark; the ‘snap-willow,’ which is so brittle that every gale breaks off its feeble twigs, and pollards.  One of these, hollow and old, had upon its top a crowd of parasites.  A bramble had taken root there, and hung over the side; a small currant-bush grew freely — both, no doubt, unwittingly planted by birds — and finally the bines of the noxious bitter-sweet or nightshade, starting from the decayed wood, supported themselves among the willow-branches, and in autumn were bright with red berries.  Ash-stoles, the buds on whose boughs in spring are hidden under black sheaths; nut-tree stoles, with ever-welcome nuts — always stolen here, but on the Downs, where they are plentiful, staying till they fall; young oak growing up from the butt of a felled tree.  On these oak-twigs sometimes, besides the ordinary round galls, there may be found another gall, larger, and formed, as it were, of green scales one above the other.

Where shall we find in the artificial and, to my thinking, tasteless pleasure-grounds of modern houses so beautiful a shrubbery as this old hedgerow?  Nor were evergreens wanting, for the ivy grew thickly, and there was one holly-bush — not more, for the soil was not affected by holly.  The tall cow-parsnip or ‘gicks’ rose up through the bushes; the great hollow stem of the angelica grew at the edge of the field, on the verge of the grass, but still sheltered by the brambles.  Some reeds early in spring thrust up their slender green tubes, tipped with two spear-like leaves.  The reed varies in height according to the position in which it grows.  If the hedge has been cut it does not reach higher than four or five feet; when it springs from a deep, hollow corner, or with bushes to draw it up, you can hardly touch its tip with your walking-stick.  The leaders of the black bryony, lifting themselves above the bushes, and having just there nothing to cling to, twist around each other, and two bines thus find mutual support where one alone would fall of its own weight.

In the watery places the sedges send up their dark flowers, dusted with light yellow pollen, rising above the triangular stem with its narrow, ribbed leaf.  The reed-sparrow or bunting sits upon the spray over the ditch with its carex grass and rushes; he is a graceful bird, with a crown of glossy black.  Hops climb the ash and hang their clusters, which impart an aromatic scent to the hand that plucks them; broad burdock leaves, which the mouchers put on the top of their baskets to shield their freshly gathered watercresses from the sunshine; creeping avens, with buttercup-like flowers and long stems that straggle across the ditch, and in autumn are tipped with a small ball of soft spines; mints, strong-scented and unmistakable; yarrow, white and sometimes a little lilac, whose flower is perhaps almost the last that the bee visits.  In the middle of October I have seen a wild bee on a last stray yarrow.

On the higher and drier bank some few slender square stems of betony, with leaves in pairs like wings, stand up tall and stiff as the summer advances.  The labiate purplish flowers are all at the top; each flower is set in the cup by a curve at the lesser end, like a crook; the leaves and stalk are slightly rough, and have an aromatic bitter perfume when crushed.  On the flower of a great thistle a moth has alighted, and hidden under its broad wing is a humble-bee, the two happy together and neither interfering with the other.  Sometimes a bee will visit the white rose on the briar.

Near the gateway, on the edge of the trodden ground, grows a tall, stout, bushy plant, like a shrub, with pale greyish-green leaves, much lobed and divided:  the top of each branch in August is thick with small whitish-green flowers tipped with brown.  These, if rubbed in the hand, emit a strong and peculiar scent, with a faint flavour of lavender, and yet quite different.  This is the mugwort.  Still later on, under the shade of the trees on the mound, there appear bunches of a pale herb, with greenish labiate flowers, and a scent like hops:  it is the woodsage, and if tasted the leaf will be found extremely bitter.

In the mornings of autumn the webs of the spiders hang along the hedge bowed a little with dew, like hammocks of gossamer slung from thorn to thorn.  Then the hedge-sparrows, perching on the topmost boughs of the hawthorn, cry ‘peep-peep’ mournfully; the heavy dew on the grass beneath arranges itself in two rows of drops along the edges of the blades.  From the day when the first leaf appears upon the hardy woodbine, in the early year, to the time when the partridge finds the eggs in the ant-hill, and on again till the last harebell dies, there is always something beautiful or interesting in these great hedgerows.  Indeed, it is impossible to exhaust them.  I have omitted the wild geranium with its tiny red petals scarce seen in the mass of green, the mosses, the ferns, and have scarcely said a word about the living creatures that haunt it.  But then one might begin to write a book about a hedgerow when a boy and find it incomplete in old age.

A much-neglected path led from the park through some fir plantations down to the fishpond.  After the first turn of the narrow track the close foliage of the firs, through which nothing could be seen, shut out the world with green walls.  The strip of blue sky visible above was wider than the path, because the trees sloped away somewhat, their branches shortening towards the top; still it was so contracted that a passing woodpigeon was seen but for a second as he went over.  Every step carried me into deeper silence — the sudden call of a jay was startling in its harsh contrast.  Presently the path widened where the thickly planted firs were succeeded by sycamores, horse-chestnuts, alders, and aspen — trees which stand farther apart, and beneath which some underwood grew.  Here there were thickets of hawthorn and bramble and elder bushes which can find no place among firs.

The ground now sloped rapidly down into a hollow, and upon this descent numbers of skeleton leaves were scattered.  There was no other spot all over the Chace where they could be seen like this; you might walk for hours and not find one, yet here there were hundreds.  Sometimes they covered the ground in layers, several leaves one on the other.  In spring violets pushed up through them and blue-bells — sweet hope rising over grey decay.

Lower down a large pond almost filled the hollow.  It was surrounded on three sides by trees and thickets; on the fourth an irregular margin of marshy grass extended.  Floating leaves of weeds covered the surface of the water; these weeds had not been disturbed for years, and there was no check to their growth except their own profusion, for they choked each other.  The pond had long ceased to supply fish for the table.  Before railways brought the sea so near, such ponds were very useful.  At that time almost everything consumed came from the estate itself:  the bread, the beef, the mutton, the venison, game, fish, all was supplied by the adjacent woods, the fields, or the water.  The lord in old days hunted the deer on his own domain, brought down game with a crossbow or captured it with nets, and fished or netted his own streams and ponds.  These great parks and chaces enclosed everything, so that it was within easy reach of his own door.  Sometimes the lord and his visitors strolled out to see the fishponds netted.

This pond had originally been one of a series, but the others had been drained and added to the meadows.  It was said to be staked at the bottom to prevent illicit netting; but if so, the stakes by this time were probably rotten or buried in mud formed from the decaying weeds, the fallen leaves, and branches which were gradually closing it up.  A few yards from the edge there was a mass of ivy through which a little brown thatch could be distinguished, and on approaching nearer this low roof was found to cover the entrance to a cave.  It was an ice-house excavated in the sloping ground or bank, in which, ’when George the Third was King,’ the ice of the ponds had been preserved to cool the owner’s wine in summer.  Ice was then a luxury for the rich only; but when so large a supply arrived from America, a supply increased by freezing machines, the ice-house lost its importance.  The door, once so jealously closed, was gone, and the dead leaves of last year had gathered in corners where the winds had whirled them.

The heat of a warm June day seemed still more powerful in this hollow.  The sedges, into which two or three moorhens had retired at my approach, were still, and the leaves on the boughs overhanging the water were motionless.  Where there was a space free from weeds — a deeper hole near the bank — a jack basked at the surface in the sunshine.  High above on the hill stood a tall dead fir, from whose trunk the bark was falling; it had but one branch, which stood out bare and stark across the sky.  There came a sound like distant thunder, but there were no clouds overhead, and it was not possible to see far round.  Pushing gently through the hawthorn bushes and ash-stoles at the farther end of the pond, I found a pleasant little stream rushing swiftly over a clear chalky bottom, hastening away down to the larger brook.

Beyond it rose a mound and hedgerow, up to which came the meadows, where, from the noise, the cattle seemed racing to and fro, teased by insects.  Tiny black flies alighting on my hands and face, irritated the skin; the haymakers call them ‘thunder-flies;’ but the murmur of the running water was so delicious that I sat down on a bulging tree-root, almost over the stream, and listened to the thrushes singing.  Had it been merely warm they would have been silent.  They do not sing in dry sunshine, but they knew what was coming; so that there is no note so hated by the haymaker as that of the thrush.  The birds were not in the firs, but in the ash-trees along the course of the rill.

The voice of the thrush is the most ‘cultivated,’ so to speak, of all our birds:  the trills, the runs, the variations, are so numerous and contrasted.  Not even the nightingale can equal it:  the nightingale has not nearly such command:  the thrush seems to know no limit.  I own I love the blackbird best, but in excellence of varied music the thrush surpasses all.  Few birds, except those that are formed for swimming, come to a still pond.  They like a clear running stream; they visit the sweet running water for drinking and bathing.  Dreaming away the time, listening to the rush of the water bubbling about the stones, I did not notice that the sky had become overcast, till suddenly a clap of thunder near at hand awakened me.  Some heavy drops of rain fell; I looked up and saw the dead branch of the fir on the hill stretched out like a withered arm across a black cloud.

Hastening back to the ice-house, I had barely entered the doorway when the lightning, visible at noonday, flashed red and threatening, the thunder crackled and snapped overhead, and the rain fell in a white sheet of water.  There were but two of these overpowering discharges with their peculiar crack and snap; the electricity passed on quickly, and the next clap roared over the woods.  But the rain was heavier than before, the fall increased after every flash, however distant, and the surface of the pond was threshed by the drops which bore down with them many leaves weakened by blight.

Doubtless the mowers in the meadows had hidden the blades of their scythes under the swathe, and the haymakers had placed their prongs in the ditches:  nothing is so likely to attract a shock of lightning as a prong carried on the shoulder with the bright steel points upwards.  In the farmhouses the old folk would cover up the looking-glasses lest the quicksilver should draw the electric fluid.  The haymakers will tell you that sometimes when they have been standing under a hedge out of a storm a flash of lightning has gone by with a distinct sound like ‘swish,’ and immediately afterwards the wet ground has sent forth a vapour, or, as they say, smoked.

Woodpigeons and many other birds seem to come home to woods and copses before and during a storm.  The woodpigeon is one of the freest of birds to all appearance:  he passes over the highest trees and goes straight away for miles.  Yet, though it is usual to speak of wild birds and of their freedom, the more you watch their ways the more you feel that the wildest have their routes and customs:  that they do not act entirely from the impulse of the moment, but have their unwritten laws.  How do the gnats there playing under the horse-chestnut boughs escape being struck down by the heavy raindrops, each one of which looks as if it would drown so small a creature?  The numbers of insects far exceed all that words can express:  consider the clouds of midges that often dance over a stream.  One day, chancing to glance at a steeple, I saw what looked like thin smoke issuing from the top of it.  Now it shot out in a straight line from the gilded beak of the weathercock, now veered about, or declined from the vane.  It was an innumerable swarm of insects, whose numbers made them visible at that height.

Some insects are much more powerful than would be supposed.  A garden was enclosed with fresh palings formed of split oak so well seasoned (split oak is the hardest of wood) that it was difficult to train any creepers against them, for a nail could not be driven in without the help of a bradawl.  Passing along the path one afternoon I heard a peculiar rasping sound like a very small saw at work, and found it proceeded from four wasps biting the oak for the materials of their nest.  The noise they made was audible four or five yards away, and upon looking closer I found the palings all scored and marked in short shallow grooves.  The scores and marks extended along that part of the palings where the sunshine usually fell; there were none on the shady side, the wasps preferring to work in the sunlight.

Soon the clouds began to break, and then the sun shone on innumerable rain-drops.  I at once started forth, knowing that such a storm is often followed by several lesser showers with brief intervals between.  The deserted ice-house was rarely visited — only, perhaps, when some borage was wanted to put in summer drinks.  For a thick growth of borage had sprung up by it, where perhaps a small garden patch had once been cultivated, for there was a pear-tree near.  The plant, with its scent of cucumber, grew very strong; the blue flowers when fallen, if they had not been observed when growing, might be supposed to have been inserted exactly upside down to their real manner of attachment.  In autumn the leaves of the pear-tree reddened, and afterwards the ivy over the entrance to the ice-house flowered; then in the cold months of early spring the birds came for the ivy-berries.