It is never so much winter in the country as it is in the town. The
trees are still there, and in and about them birds remain. "Quip!
whip!" sounds from the elms; "Whip! quip!" Redwing thrushes threaten
with the "whip" those who advance towards them; they spend much of the
day in the elm-tops. Thick tussocks of old grass are conspicuous at the
skirt of a hedge; half green, half grey, they contrast with the bare
thorn. From behind one of these tussocks a hare starts, his
black-tipped ears erect, his long hinder limbs throwing him almost like
a grasshopper over the sward--no creature looks so handsome or
startling, and it is always a pleasant surprise to see him. Pheasant or
partridge do not surprise in the least--they are no more than any other
bird; but a hare causes quite a different feeling. He is perfectly
wild, unfed, untended, and then he is the largest animal to be shot in
the fields. A rabbit slips along the mound, under bushes and behind
stoles, but a hare bolts for the open, and hopes in his speed. He
leaves the straining spaniel behind, and the distance between them
increases as they go. The spaniel's broad hind paws are thrown wide
apart as he runs, striking outwards as well as backwards, and his large
ears are lifted by the wind of his progress. Overtaken by the
cartridge, still the hare, as he lies in the dewy grass, is handsome;
lift him up and his fur is full of colour, there are layers of tint,
shadings of brown within it, one under the other, and the surface is
exquisitely clean. The colours are not really bright, at least not
separately; but they are so clean and so clear that they give an
impression of warmth and brightness. Even in the excitement of sport
regret cannot but be felt at the sight of those few drops of blood
about the mouth which indicate that all this beautiful workmanship must
now cease to be. Had he escaped the sportsman would not have been
displeased.
The black bud-sheaths of the ash may furnish a comparison for his
ear-tips; the brown brake in October might give one hue for his fur;
the yellow or buff bryony leaf perhaps another; the clematis is not
whiter than the white part. His colours, as those of so many of our
native wild creatures, appear selected from the woods, as if they had
been gathered and skilfully mingled together. They can be traced or
paralleled in the trees, the bushes, grasses, or flowers, as if
extracted from them by a secret alchemy. In the plumage of the
partridge there are tints that may be compared with the brown corn, the
brown ripe grains rubbed from the ear; it is in the corn-fields that
the partridge delights. There the young brood are sheltered, there they
feed and grow plump. The red tips of other feathers are reflections of
the red sorrel of the meadows. The grey fur of the rabbit resembles the
grey ash hue of the underwood in which he hides.
A common plant in moist places, the figwort, bears small velvety
flowers, much the colour of the red velvet topknot of the goldfinch,
the yellow on whose wings is like the yellow bloom of the furze which
he frequents in the winter, perching cleverly on its prickly
extremities. In the woods, in the bark of the trees, the varied shades
of the branches as their size diminishes, the adhering lichens, the
stems of the underwood, now grey, now green; the dry stalks of plants,
brown, white, or dark, all the innumerable minor hues that cross and
interlace, there is suggested the woven texture of tints found on the
wings of birds. For brighter tones the autumn leaves can be resorted
to, and in summer the finches rising from the grass spring upwards from
among flowers that could supply them with all their colours. But it is
not so much the brighter as the undertones that seem to have been drawn
from the woodlands or fields. Although no such influence has really
been exerted by the trees and plants upon the living creatures, yet it
is pleasant to trace the analogy. Those who would convert it into a
scientific fact are met with a dilemma to which they are usually
oblivious, _i.e._ that most birds migrate, and the very tints which in
this country might perhaps, by a stretch of argument, be supposed to
conceal them, in a distant climate with a different foliage, or none,
would render them conspicuous. Yet it is these analogies and
imaginative comparisons which make the country so delightful.
One day in autumn, after toiling with their guns, which are heavy in
the September heats, across the fields and over the hills, the
hospitable owner of the place suddenly asked his weary and thirsty
friend which he would have, champagne, ale, or spirits. They were just
then in the midst of a cover, the trees kept off the wind, the
afternoon sun was warm, and thirst very natural. They had not been
shooting in the cover, but had to pass through to other cornfields. It
seemed a sorry jest to ask which would be preferred in that lonely and
deserted spot, miles from home or any house whence refreshment could be
obtained--wine, spirits, or ale?--an absurd question, and irritating
under the circumstances. As it was repeated persistently, however, the
reply was at length given, in no very good humour, and wine chosen.
Forthwith putting down his gun, the interrogator pushed in among the
underwood, and from a cavity concealed beneath some bushes drew forth a
bottle of champagne. He had several of these stores hidden in various
parts of the domain, ready whichever way the chance of sport should
direct their footsteps.
Now the dry wild parsnip, or "gicks," five feet high, stands dead and
dry, its jointed tube of dark stem surmounted with circular frills or
umbels; the teazle heads are brown, the great burdocks leafless, and
their burs, still adhering, are withered; the ground, almost free of
obstruction, is comparatively easy to search over, but the old
sportsman is too cunning to bury his wine twice in the same place, and
it is no use to look about. No birds in last year's nests--the winds
have torn and upset the mossy structures in the bushes; no champagne in
last year's cover. The driest place is under the firs, where the
needles have fallen and strew the surface thickly. Outside the wood, in
the waggon-track, the beech leaves lie on the side of the mound, dry
and shrivelled at the top, but stir them, and under the top layer they
still retain the clear brown of autumn.
The ivy trailing on the bank is moist and freshly green. There are two
tints of moss; one light, the other deeper--both very pleasant and
restful to the eye. These beds of moss are the greenest and brightest
of the winter's colours. Besides these there are ale-hoof, or
ground-ivy leaves (not the ivy that climbs trees), violet leaves,
celandine mars, primrose mars, foxglove mars, teazle mars, and barren
strawberry leaves, all green in the midst of winter. One tiny white
flower of barren strawberry has ventured to bloom. Round about the
lower end of each maple stick, just at the ground, is a green wrap of
moss. Though leafless above, it is green at the foot. At the verge of
the ploughed field below, exposed as it is, chickweed, groundsel, and
shepherd's-purse are flowering. About a little thorn there hang
withered red berries of bryony, as if the bare thorn bore fruit; the
bine of the climbing plant clings to it still; there are traces of "old
man's beard," the white fluffy relics of clematis bloom, stained brown
by the weather; green catkins droop thickly on the hazel. Every step
presents some item of interest, and thus it is that it is never so much
winter in the country. Where fodder has been thrown down in a pasture
field for horses, a black congregation of rooks has crowded together in
a ring. A solitary pole for trapping hawks stands on the sloping ground
outside the cover. These poles are visited every morning when the trap
is there, and the captured creature put out of pain. Of the cruelty of
the trap itself there can be no doubt; but it is very unjust to assume
that therefore those connected with sport are personally cruel. In a
farmhouse much frequented by rats, and from which they cannot be driven
out, these animals are said to have discovered a means of defying the
gin set for them. One such gin was placed in the cheese-room, near a
hole from which they issued, but they dragged together pieces of straw,
little fragments of wood, and various odds and ends, and so covered the
pan that the trap could not spring. They formed, in fact, a bridge over
it.
Red and yellow fungi mark decaying places on the trunks and branches of
the trees; their colour is brightest when the boughs are bare. By a
streamlet wandering into the osier beds the winter gnats dance in the
sunshine, round about an old post covered with ivy, on which green
berries are thick. The warm sunshine gladdens the hearts of the
moorhens floating on the water yonder by the bushes, and their singular
note, "coorg-coorg," is uttered at intervals. In the plantation close
to the house a fox resides as safe as King Louis in "Quentin Durward,"
surrounded with his guards and archers and fortified towers, though
tokens of his midnight rambles, in the shape of bones, strew the front
of his castle. He crosses the lawn in sight of the windows
occasionally, as if he really knew and understood that his life is
absolutely safe at ordinary times, and that he need beware of nothing
but the hounds.