to rest. A great babbling and twittering comes from groves of holly and hawthorn, as if the sparrows were scrambling for perches. They retire earlier than the missel-thrush, which is still whistling his loud, strong song from the topmost branch of a leafless tree, while blackbirds are scolding one another in the hawthorn cover. Sometimes one will fly out, looking a little confused and terrified in the dusk. The bullfinch often chooses a bush quite close to the road, and, getting to the very centre, sticks out his feathers as a protection against the cold, and with his head under his wing makes a strange little huddled-up mass, his bright colors hardly showing in the dim light. But let me walk ever so softly past the old pollards after dark, and the lightsleeping inmates-wrens and tits, I fancy-though it is always too late to identify them, fly out, often into my very face, the warm soft feathers making no unpleasant impact against the skin. A deep hush steals over the trees at last, the chirruping voices are no longer heard, and only the rustling of dead leaves and the scamper of small feet tell that the life of night is awake -that the stoat, the weasel, and the rat are busy and coursing after their victims. Finally, the king of the Forest trees is a pollard, a grand oak twentytwo feet in circumference, standing beside Fairmead Lodge.

But, after all has been said, the most beautiful woodland scenery is at High Beech and Monk Wood, where the trees are of natural growth. They were seen at their best in the autumn of 1897, when the season made one of those slow and stately revolutions that exhibit every gradation of color: first the deep green of summer, with the sunlight only breaking through in spots and bars next, a glowing bronze, with red leaves fluttering softly down to the earth, kept bare by the shallow roots of the trees; finally, stripped boughs rising from a russet carpet, and the winter sun like a blazing fire seen through the branches. It is pleasant to watch buds expanding and breaking into leaf, equally pleasant to rest in a shady grove during summer, or to note the changing colors of autumn; but in winter alone is it possible to see the full beauty

of forest trees, the noble stem or central pillar, the bold fine limbs flung heavenward, the exquisite tracery made by the branching summit against the sky.

Even those who do not subscribe to this austere doctrine, who love color and ornament, blossoms and green leaves, and the sparkle of sunshine, more than form, will find it interesting to sit on some old tree-trunk under the beeches late in autumn. The mast tempts the shyest woodlanders. Little squirrels, with their tails over their heads, clamber down the trunks, and, after assuring themselves there is no danger, begin turning the leaves over for nuts. They have quite a large vocabulary, a curious sound between a low squeal and a cough, that they give with a jerk of the body when they eat and also as they leap about on the trees; a bark or wough when suddenly alarmed; a shrill chatter, almost as sharp and clear as a bird's, when conversing among themselves. At one time they were nearly extirpated, but are very plentiful now in the forest.

Not far off a gorgeous cock pheasant steals from an adjacent corner of withering fern and has a feast to himself. This bird, I think, exists in the right numbers. His bed-going croak is one of the familiar sounds of dusk, yet one never finds more than two in company, and only a few broods are reared annually. More would but tempt the poacher, and there are enough to lend variety to the bird-life. The partridge, of course, loves the ploughed field more than the grove, but a few come to the open spaces and may occasionally be seen even in the deepest part of the forest.

Another bird that comes for mast is the jay, of which the forest breeds myriads. Its discordant croak seems to belong to the nature of the place, like the tinkle of cow-bells and the eternal chatter of tits. The magpie, on the other hand, which has similar habits and lives on practically the same food, is seldom to be seen. Six or seven years ago there were several walks on which one was almost certain to see a magpie or two; the appearance of one now has come to be a very great rarity indeed. Mr. E. N. Buxton says that

two broods were reared last year on the outskirts of the forest, but they are never visible within. Every lover of birds must regret this. The magpie is more beautiful in form and much more graceful in flight than the ill-balanced, awkward-flying jay. One reason for its disappearance may be that the magpie builds a more conspicuous and easily robbed nest than the jay, which prefers the impenetrable thicket for its home. But, on the other hand, it is difficult to say why one species thrives and another dwindles. On the forest ponds, for instance, waterhens and ducks are in tremendous force. They are found wherever there is water; but the stronghold of the former is Highams Lake, where it is pretty to watch them in the breeding season, when the pond is white with water-lilies. The long-legged mothers look quite comical as they straggle over the broad green floating leaves, picking the insects and followed by their dusky chicks. But the bolder and greedier ducks prefer Connaught Water, where they follow the boats and gobble up the crumbled bread and biscuit freely tossed to them by the occupants. They are as tame as barn-door fowls here, though as difficult to shoot as ever when once they cross the boundary of the forest, and even when they return from their wanderings at dusk fly round and round as suspiciously as if they dreaded a decoy or a punt gun. It seems very remarkable that the coot should be rapidly diminishing as these increase in numbers. The same thing has happened in waters that used to be familiar to me as a boy. At that time the "bell-pot" was as familiar as the waterhen, and, though it can scarcely be said to have become absolutely rare, it has ceased to be common. Yet it is not shot or persecuted in any way, the sedge-margined water is less frequented than it used to be, and there seems to be no good reason why the coot should not increase and multiply.

While on this subject I may say that birds of prey take little advantage of the asylum or sanctuary offered them in Epping Forest. There are a few kestrels and sparrowhawks, but no great number, and the rest of the falconidæ only occur as rare visitors. Wood-owls are occasionally seen and

heard, but they are not in anything like the number that might have been expected. Yet the small creatures on which they feed-rats, mice, moles, shrews, voles, insects, and small birds are in abundant numbers, especially the mole, which may be seen working any day. One afternoon I witnessed a fierce battle between two of them. Like Falstaff, they "fought a good hour by Shewsbury clock," worrying at one another's throats like bull-dogs. They rather justified the expression as blind as a mole," for when they got "out of grips" each seemed to find a difficulty in rediscovering its antagonist. It is said that there are longeared owls in the Forest, but I have not come across one, and the barn-owl is very rare. They are infrequently seen, and a close search is never required where owls are in large numbers, for they will venture out by daylight and get themselves mobbed by small birds who make a racket that soon announces what has happened.

66

Thanks again to the many-creviced pollard one night loving creature, the little bat, is nearly as common and plentiful as the sparrow. I saw one hunting about on the evening of January 13 of this year-a very early date and a testimony to the mildness of the winter. When searching rotten treetrunks for caterpillars boys often get whole families crowded up in a corner. They are not very difficult to tame.

I have not left much space for the quadrupeds. Undoubtedly the finest beasts of the Forest are the fallow aud roe deer; it is a question whether they are not too numerous for the quantity of food. They used to be so extremely wild that many frequenters of the Forest were sceptical of their existence; but quite recently they have become as tame as sheep, and will scarcely run a dozen vards when startled. Moreover, they have spread to parts where they were scarcely ever seen before. numbering from three or four to eighteen. or twenty is to be met with close to Chingford station, in the cover adjoining the "Woodman." They did not use to venture south of High Beech. I am afraid that what has tamed them is hunger. Be it remembered, the commoners' rights are exercised to the full.

A herd

to rest. A great babbling and twittering comes from groves of holly and hawthorn, as if the sparrows were scrambling for perches. They retire earlier than the missel-thrush, which is still whistling his loud, strong song from the topmost branch of a leafless tree, while blackbirds are scolding one another in the hawthorn cover. Sometimes one will fly out, looking a little confused and terrified in the dusk. The bullfinch often chooses a bush quite close to the road, and, getting to the very centre, sticks out his feathers as a protection against the cold, and with his head under his wing makes a strange little huddled-up mass, his bright colors hardly showing in the dim light. But let me walk ever so softly past the old pollards after dark, and the lightsleeping inmates-wrens and tits, I fancy-though it is always too late to identify them, fly out, often into my very face, the warm soft feathers making no unpleasant impact against the skin. A deep hush steals over the trees at last, the chirruping voices are no longer heard, and only the rustling of dead leaves and the scamper of small feet tell that the life of night is awake -that the stoat, the weasel, and the rat are busy and coursing after their vicFinally, the king of the Forest trees is a pollard, a grand oak twentytwo feet in circumference, standing beside Fairmead Lodge.

But, after all has been said, the most beautiful woodland scenery is at High Beech and Monk Wood, where the trees are of natural growth. They were seen at their best in the autumn of 1897, when the season made one of those slow and stately revolutions that exhibit every gradation of color: first the deep green of summer, with the sunlight only breaking through in spots and bars; next, a glowing bronze, with red leaves fluttering softly down to the earth, kept bare by the shallow roots of the trees; finally, stripped boughs rising from a russet carpet, and the winter sun like a blazing fire seen through the branches. It is pleasant to watch buds expanding and breaking into leaf, equally pleasant to rest in a shady grove during summer, or to note the changing colors of autumn; but in winter alone is it possible to see the full beauty

of forest trees, the noble stem or central pillar, the bold fine limbs flung heavenward, the exquisite tracery made by the branching summit against the sky.

Even those who do not subscribe to this austere doctrine, who love color and ornament, blossoms and green leaves, and the sparkle of sunshine, more than form, will find it interesting to sit on some old tree-trunk under the beeches late in autumn. The mast tempts the shyest woodlanders. Little squirrels, with their tails over their heads, clamber down the trunks, and, after assuring themselves there is no danger, begin turning the leaves over for nuts. They have quite a large vocabulary, a curious sound between a low squeal and a cough, that they give with a jerk of the body when they eat and also as they leap about on the trees; a bark or wough when suddenly alarmed; a shrill chatter, almost as sharp and clear as a bird's, when conversing among themselves. At one time they were nearly extirpated, but are very plentiful now in the forest.

Not far off a gorgeous cock pheasant steals from an adjacent corner of withering fern and has a feast to himself. This bird, I think, exists in the right numbers. His bed-going croak is one of the familiar sounds of dusk, yet one never finds more than two in company, and only a few broods are reared annually. More would but tempt the poacher, and there are enough to lend variety to the bird-life. The partridge, of course, loves the ploughed field more than the grove, but a few come to the open spaces and may occasionally be seen even in the deepest part of the forest.

Another bird that comes for mast is the jay, of which the forest breeds myriads. Its discordant croak seems to belong to the nature of the place, like the tinkle of cow-bells and the eternal chatter of tits. The magpie, on the other hand, which has similar habits and lives on practically the same food, is seldom to be seen. Six or seven years ago there were several walks on which one was almost certain to see a magpie or two; the appearance of one now has come to be a very great rarity indeed. Mr. E. N. Buxton says that