We know a wood near the Hampshire Highlands that was once famous
for its ash, and would be as famous now if the wood's owner had his
keeper's fine feeling. The keeper's heart was cut if frost blackened
the leaves; this was a grim tragedy. And there were larches of
gun-barrel straightness. An order was given that the wood should be
laid low. The woodmen came with saw and axe, beetle and wedges, they
cut all the trees, and sent them to the guillotine of the travelling
steam-saw, which spoiled as fair a meadow as any in Hampshire. Next the
woodland was thrown open to cattle, horses, and sheep. Then the keeper
was dismissed: and glad he was to go.
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