Coming along a woodland lane, a small round and glittering object in
the brushwood caught my attention. The ground was but just hidden in
that part of the wood with a thin growth of brambles, low, and more
like creepers than anything else. These scarcely hid the surface, which
was brown with the remnants of oak-leaves; there seemed so little
cover, indeed, that a mouse might have been seen. But at that spot some
great spurge-plants hung this way and that, leaning aside, as if the
sterns were too weak to uphold the heads of dark-green leaves. Thin
grasses, perfectly white, bleached by the sun and dew, stood in a bunch
by the spurge; their seeds had fallen, the last dregs of sap had dried
within them, there was nothing left but the bare stalks. A creeper of
bramble fenced round one side of the spurge and white grass bunch, and
brown leaves were visible on the surface of the ground through the
interstices of the spray. It was in the midst of this little thicket
that a small, dark, and glittering object caught my attention. I knew
it was the eye of some creature at once, but, supposing it nothing more
than a young rabbit, was passing on, thinking of other matters, when it
occurred to me, before I could finish the step I had taken, so quick is
thought, that the eye was not large enough to be that of a rabbit. I
stopped; the black glittering eye had gone--the creature had lowered
its neck, but immediately noticing that I was looking in that
direction, it cautiously raised itself a little, and I saw at once that
the eye was the eye of a bird. This I knew first by its size, and next
by its position in relation to the head, which was invisible--for had
it been a rabbit or hare, its ears would have projected. The moment
after, the eye itself confirmed this--the nictitating membrane was
rapidly drawn over it, and as rapidly removed. This membrane is the
distinguishing mark of a bird's eye. But what bird? Although I was
within two yards, I could not even see its head, nothing but the
glittering eyeball, on which the light of the sun glinted. The sunbeams
came over my shoulder straight into the bird's face.
Without moving--which I did not wish to do, as it would disturb the
bird--I could not see its plumage; the bramble spray in front, the
spurge behind, and the bleached grasses at the side, perfectly
concealed it. Only two birds I considered would be likely to squat and
remain quiescent like this--partridge or pheasant; but I could not
contrive to view the least portion of the neck. A moment afterwards the
eye came up again, and the bird slightly moved its head, when I saw its
beak, and knew it was a pheasant immediately. I then stepped
forward--almost on the bird--and a young pheasant rose, and flew
between the tree-trunks to a deep dry watercourse, where it disappeared
under some withering yellow-ferns.
Of course I could easily have solved the problem long before, merely by
startling the bird; but what would have been the pleasure of that? Any
plough-lad could have forced the bird to rise, and would have
recognised it as a pheasant; to me, the pleasure consisted in
discovering it under every difficulty. That was woodcraft; to kick the
bird up would have been simply nothing at all. Now I found why I could
not see the pheasant's neck or body; it was not really concealed, but
shaded out by the mingled hues of white grasses, the brown leaves of
the surface, and the general grey-brown tints. Now it was gone, there
was a vacant space its plumage had filled up that vacant space with
hues so similar, that, at no farther distance than two yards, I did not
recognise it by colour. Had the bird fully carried out its instinct of
concealment, and kept its head down as well as its body, I should have
passed it. Nor should I have seen its head if it had looked the other
way; the eye betrayed its presence. The dark glittering eye, which the
sunlight touched, caught my attention instantly. There is nothing like
an eye in inanimate nature; no flower, no speck on a bough, no gleaming
stone wet with dew, nothing, indeed, to which it can be compared. The
eye betrayed it; I could not overlook an eye. Neither nature nor
inherited experience had taught the pheasant to hide its eye; the bird
not only wished to conceal itself, but to watch my motions and, looking
up from its cover, was immediately observed.
At a turn of the lane there was a great heap of oak "chumps," crooked
logs, sawn in lengths, and piled together. They were so crooked, it was
difficult to find a seat, till I hit on one larger than the rest. The
pile of "chunks" rose halfway up the stem of an oak tree, and formed a
wall of wood at my back; the oak-boughs reached over and made a
pleasant shade. The sun was warm enough, to render resting in the open
air delicious, the wind cool enough to prevent the heat becoming too
great; the pile of timber kept off the draught, so that I could stay
and listen to the gentle "hush, rush" of the breeze in the oak above
me; "hush" as it came slowly, "rush" as it came fast, and a low
undertone as it nearly ceased. So thick were the haws on a bush of
thorn opposite, that they tinted the hedge a red colour among the
yellowing hawthorn-leaves. To this red hue the blackberries that were
not ripe, the thick dry red sorrel stalks, a bright canker on a brier
almost as bright as a rose, added their colours. Already the foliage of
the bushes had been thinned, and it was possible to see through the
upper parts of the boughs. The sunlight, therefore, not only touched
their outer surfaces, but passed through and lit up the branches
within, and the wild-fruit upon them. Though the sky was clear and blue
between the clouds, that is, without mist or haze, the sunbeams were
coloured the faintest yellow, as they always are on a ripe autumn day.
This yellow shone back from grass and leaves, from bough and
tree-trunk, and seemed to stain the ground. It is very pleasant to the
eyes, a soft, delicate light, that gives another beauty to the
atmosphere. Some roan cows were wandering down the lane, feeding on the
herbage at the side; their colour, too, was lit up by the peculiar
light, which gave a singular softness to the large shadows of the trees
upon the sward. In a meadow by the wood the oaks cast broad shadows on
the short velvety sward, not so sharp and definite as those of summer,
but tender, and, as it were, drawn with a loving hand. They were large
shadows, though it was mid-day--a sign that the sun was no longer at
his greatest height, but declining. In July, they would scarcely have
extended beyond the rim of the boughs; the rays would have dropped
perpendicularly, now they slanted. Pleasant as it was, there was regret
in the thought that the summer was going fast. Another sign--the grass
by the gateway, an acre of it, was brightly yellow with hawkweeds, and
under these were the last faded brown heads of meadow clover; the
brown, the bright yellow disks, the green grass, the tinted sunlight
falling upon it, caused a wavering colour that fleeted before the
glance.
All things brown, and yellow, and red, are brought out by the autumn
sun; the brown furrows freshly turned where the stubble was yesterday,
the brown bark of trees, the brown fallen leaves, the brown stalks of
plants; the red haws, the red unripe blackberries, red bryony berries,
reddish-yellow fungi, yellow hawkweed, yellow ragwort, yellow
hazel-leaves, elms, spots in lime or beech; not a speck of yellow, red,
or brown the yellow sunlight does not find out. And these make autumn,
with the caw of rooks, the peculiar autumn caw of laziness and full
feeding, the sky blue as March between the great masses of dry cloud
floating over, the mist in the distant valleys, the tinkle of traces as
the plough turns and the silence of the woodland birds. The lark calls
as he rises from the earth, the swallows still wheeling call as they go
over, but the woodland birds are mostly still and the restless sparrows
gone forth in a cloud to the stubble. Dry clouds, because they
evidently contain no moisture that will fall as rain here; thick mists,
condensed haze only, floating on before the wind. The oaks were not yet
yellow, their leaves were half green, half brown; Time had begun to
invade them, but had not yet indented his full mark.
Of the year there are two most pleasurable seasons: the spring, when
the oak-leaves come russet-brown on the great oaks; the autumn, when
the oak-leaves begin to turn. At the one, I enjoy the summer that is
coming; at the other, the summer that is going. At either, there is a
freshness in the atmosphere, a colour everywhere, a depth of blue in
the sky, a welcome in the woods. The redwings had not yet come; the
acorns were full, but still green; the greedy rooks longed to see them
riper. They were very numerous, the oaks covered with them, a crop for
the greedy rooks, the greedier pigeons, the pheasants, and the jays.
One thing I missed--the corn. So quickly was the harvest gathered, that
those who delight in the colour of the wheat had no time to enjoy it.
If any painter had been looking forward to August to enable him to
paint the corn, he must have been disappointed. There was no time; the
sun came, saw, and conquered, and the sheaves were swept from the
field. Before yet the reapers had entered one field of ripe wheat, I
did indeed for a brief evening obtain a glimpse of the richness and
still beauty of an English harvest. The sun was down, and in the west a
pearly grey light spread widely, with a little scarlet drawn along its
lower border. Heavy shadows hung in the foliage of the elms, the clover
had closed, and the quiet moths had taken the place of the humming
bees. Southwards, the full moon, a red-yellow disk, shone over the
wheat, which appeared the finest pale amber. A quiver of colour--an
undulation--seemed to stay in the air, left from the heated day; the
sunset hues and those of the red-tinted moon fell as it were into the
remnant of day, and filled the wheat; they were poured into it, so that
it grew in their colours. Still heavier the shadows deepened in the
elms; all was silence, save for the sound of the reapers on the other
side of the hedge, slash--rustle, slash--rustle, and the drowsy night
came down as softly as an eyelid.
While I sat on the log under the oak, every now and then wasps came to
the crooked pieces of sawn timber, which had been barked. They did not
appear to be biting it--they can easily snip off fragments of the
hardest oak,--they merely alighted and examined it, and went on again.
Looking at them, I did not notice the lane till something moved, and
two young pheasants ran by along the middle of the track and into the
cover at the side. The grass at the edge which they pushed through
closed behind them, and feeble as it was--grass only--it shut off the
interior of the cover as firmly as iron bars. The pheasant is a strong
lock upon the woods; like one of Chubb's patent locks, he closes the
woods as firmly as an iron safe can be shut. Wherever the pheasant is
artificially reared, and a great "head" kept up for battue-shooting,
there the woods are sealed. No matter if the wanderer approach with the
most harmless of intentions, it is exactly the same as if he were a
species of burglar. The botanist, the painter, the student of nature,
all are met with the high-barred gate and the throat of law. Of course,
the pheasant-lock can be opened by the silver key; still, there is the
fact, that since pheasants have been bred on so large a scale, half the
beautiful woodlands of England have been fastened up. Where there is no
artificial rearing there is much more freedom; those who love the
forest can roam at their pleasure, for it is not the fear of damage
that locks the gate, but the pheasant. In every sense, the so-called
sport of battue-shooting is injurious--injurious to the sportsman, to
the poorer class, to the community. Every true sportsman should
discourage it, and indeed does. I was talking with a thorough sportsman
recently, who told me, to my delight, that he never reared birds by
hand; yet he had a fair supply, and could always give a good day's
sport, judged as any reasonable man would judge sport. Nothing must
enter the domains of the hand-reared pheasant; even the nightingale is
not safe. A naturalist has recorded that in a district he visited, the
nightingales were always shot by the keepers and their eggs smashed,
because the singing of these birds at night disturbed the repose of the
pheasants! They also always stepped on the eggs of the fern-owl, which
are laid on the ground, and shot the bird if they saw it, for the same
reason, as it makes a jarring sound at dusk. The fern-owl, or
goatsucker, is one of the most harmless of birds--a sort of evening
swallow--living on moths, chafers, and similar night-flying insects.
Continuing my walk, still under the oaks and green acorns, I wondered
why I did not meet any one. There was a man cutting fern in the wood--a
labourer--and another cutting up thistles in a field; but with the
exception of men actually employed and paid, I did not meet a single
person, though the lane I was following is close to several well-to-do
places. I call that a well-to-do place where there are hundreds of
large villas inhabited by wealthy people. It is true that the great
majority of persons have to attend to business, even if they enjoy a
good income; still, making every allowance for such a necessity, it is
singular how few, how very few, seem to appreciate the quiet beauty of
this lovely country. Somehow, they do not seem to see it--to look over
it; there is no excitement in it, for one thing. They can see a great
deal in Paris, but nothing in an English meadow. I have often wondered
at the rarity of meeting any one in the fields, and yet--curious
anomaly--if you point out anything--or describe it, the interest
exhibited is marked. Every one takes an interest, but no one goes to
see for himself. For instance, since the natural history collection was
removed from the British Museum to a separate building at South
Kensington, it is stated that the visitors to the Museum have fallen
from an average of twenty-five hundred a day to one thousand; the
inference is, that out of every twenty-five, fifteen came to see the
natural history cases. Indeed, it is difficult to find a person who
does not take an interest in some department of natural history, and
yet I scarcely ever meet any one in the fields. You may meet many in
the autumn far away in places famous for scenery, but almost none in
the meadows at home.
I stayed by a large pond to look at the shadows of the trees on the
green surface of duckweed. The soft green of the smooth weed received
the shadows as if specially prepared to show them to advantage. The
more the tree was divided--the more interlaced its branches and less
laden with foliage, the more it "came out" on the green surface; each
slender twig was reproduced, and sometimes even the leaves. From an
oak, and from a lime, leaves had fallen, and remained on the green
weed; the flags by the shore were turning brown; a tint of yellow was
creeping up the rashes, and the great trunk of a fir shone reddish
brown in the sunlight. There was colour even about the still pool,
where the weeds grew so thickly that the moorhens could scarcely swim
through them.