298 THE ESSEX NATURALIST.
Passing over what were once trimly kept lawns and flower
gardens, now run wild and rank, rabbits skip across our path
as we strike away to a wood gate that we see through the shrubs.
We find it locked, but the iron-work has half dropped away and
the gate seems not to have been opened for twenty years. But
we have no great difficulty in gaining the coverts, where we meet
the old woodman with his half dozen sturdy attendants. He
regrets that he cannot go round with us and show us the beauties
of the place, but it is pay day and he must be off to settle with
his men.
However, we want no guide, so wishing him good-day we
stroll on, well pleased to have our lime to ourselves, and silence,
without which few birds are seen to advantage.
In sheltered spots the broad arrow-shaped leaves of Lords
and Ladies are already well above ground, though this is only
the third of February, and blue bells are making a green carpet.
Mosses dislike the smoke of London, and only a few of the
hardy ones decorate our suburban neighbourhood, but we find
several in fine fruit—the "undulated hair moss" being in great
abundance. Before us on the lonely margin of the lake that we
can now see stretching away in winding reaches hemmed in with
wood, is a green slope that makes us look with smiling eyes ;
it is gemmed all over with the "Chaste snowdrop, venturous
harbinger of spring and pensive monitor of fleeting years"—
very beautiful, beside the old boathouse now falling somewhat to
decay, with the grotto, where, years ago, merry parties gathered
and watched the view over the fine stretch of waters.
As we cautiously thread our way among the trees the nut-
hatch makes the woods echo with his clear loud call; tit-mice
are busy searching for their hidden prey concealed in the crevices
of the bark ; a golden crested wren flits, uttering its small note,
before us, and blackbirds and thrushes fly with scared chatter
from our approach. Now we skirt the margin of the lake, putting
up dozens of moorhens that flutter over the surface, just tipping
the water with their long toes as they pass.
But what is that roar like the fall of a distant cascade ? At
first it is a mystery, as surely no waterfall can exist in this level
region, but a few steps further, and we hear the high clear notes
of the starling above the tumult, and now we see the trees
before us covered, as though with black foliage, with countless