Poachers and Poaching

by F.L.S. John Watson

The woodman lives in a stone hut, near the confines of what was once an extensive forest, through which trooped vast herds of deer, both red and fallow. His weather-beaten face, which in colour resembles a ripe russet apple, tells of long exposure to summer's sun and winter's cold. His hair is white, and his form as yet but slightly bowed. The only other occupant of the hut is a girl grandchild, who has long lived with him. Neither have ever been more than a dozen miles from the spot, nor care to. Nominally the old man's work is to look after the woods of one valley. This has been his life-work, and he has no longing for change. He knows nothing of what goes on without a narrow circle, and his Bible and an occasional country newspaper constitute his sole literature.

As becomes his craft he never tires of talking of trees. In his woods the giant oak is common, with its gnarled and twisted bole, its wildly reticulated branches, its lichens, and its host of insect visitors. He has himself detected the two varieties of the oak, and points out the difference. In one case the acorns are borne on stalks, in the other they are sessile. Of these he speaks as the long and short-stalked kinds. He has no confidence in the popular theory that the wood of the one greatly excels that of the other. He has worked both, and has not discovered any substantial difference. In late autumn he gathers from beneath the oaks huge sacksful of acorns, of which he disposes to the farmers. Next comes the majestic beech, with its smooth bole and olive-grey bark. The old man recalls its wondrous flood of green in spring, and its not less glorious gold in autumn.

Some modern Orlando even haunts the forest hereabouts, and abuses the young trees with carving not Rosalind but "Emilie" on their barks. The sentiment which stops the growth of the young beeches appeals to no finer sense within the bosom of the old man. And so he roundly denounces the wandering lover who has carved thereon the name he adores, in no unmeasured terms.

In summer a few purple beeches light up the wood, and the old man is surprised to learn that all trees of this variety sprang from a single tree which was found growing wild in the midst of one of the immense forests of Thuringia. But more than all the interest that attaches to the trees are the uses to which their wood is put. The little church on the Fellside opposite consists internally of oak from this very wood; and so, too, do half the beams and rafters in the parish. The hard, close-grained wood of the beech, too, is used for a great variety of purposes as well as fuel. Interspersed throughout the wood are numbers of ash-trees, soon to be arrayed in feathery lightness, but now more reminding us of Tennyson's naturalistic simile, "Black as ashbuds in March." The toughness and elasticity of the wood of the ash are well known, and here is an opportunity for the display of the timber genius of our old friend. There is, he tells us, little else than this about the yard of the village wheelwright. Cart shafts are made from it, as are the primitive agricultural implements used in the valley; of like wood is his own axe handle and spade shaft. In the country infinite almost are the uses of the ash.

In the middle of the wood, and coming down to the stream sides, are a retinue of fringed elms, both Campestris and Montana. Some of these have attained to an immense size, and are at one with the scenery. But in the open spots of the wood—in the glades where life most prevails—are the beautiful birches, with their striped, silvery bark. Well does this tree merit its appellation of "lady of the woods." There is none so frail, so graceful, nor so generally beautiful. Almost every part of the birch is used and for a great variety of purposes. In spring the delicate green of the larch hangs in trailing tassels, and contrasts well with the dark green foliage of the indigenous pine. The old forester has an "Unter den Linden" equal, at least in beauty, to any in Europe, and in summer the trees are a veritable haunt of summer wings. The field maple and the sycamore are here, and interspersed in the open spaces a few white stemmed walnuts. These in autumn yield a rich harvest to the forester. The horse-chestnut is common, and then come a host of trees of minor growth. All the wild fruit trees are here, and hang out glories of snowy and pink blossoms in spring—the pear, the cherry, and the wild apple. Sombre yews that set off the pale green of the woodlands are plentiful, and in them the cushats and the jays build. In addition to these there are the wild service tree, white beam, and mountain ash, the last called by the old man the rowan.

Planting and thinning and felling constitute the work of the woodman throughout the year. But there are a thousand little offshoots of woodcraft of which he has knowledge and which he indulges at times. Like the charcoal burners, he holds free right and warren of the woods. He can make many primitive lures for taking wild creatures, and is an adept at "gins" and "springs" for destroying vermin. In winter he sets snares for woodcock and snipe. He is a great favourite with the resident boys at the neighbouring grammar school, and procures them mice and squirrels and birds' eggs. He makes wooden pegs and teeth for the farmers, and various little articles for the farm women. He sells bundles of faggots and sticks for supporting peas, and a dozen other perquisites, all products of the woodlands. The embrowned nuts of autumn he turns to profitable account. In the forest are numerous hazel copses, together forming many acres. In autumn the old man was surprised to receive a visit from a burly man in a gig. He told the woodman, in a dialect differing from his own, that he was a "badger;" and then and there made an astounding bid for the nuts. The old man closed with the handsome offer, and this sum now adds annually to his otherwise slight income.

CHAPTER XIV.
SKETCHES FROM NATURE.

I.
NATURE'S WEATHER PROPHETS.

Nature's barometers are the only ones of which most country-folk have any knowledge. These they may consult at all times, and they know them by heart. Almost all field-workers are "weather wise," and their conversation on this head has no town conventionalism about it. The farmer has been so beaten about by wind and weather that he himself is scarcely sensible to changing atmospheric conditions; but that does not prevent his observing its influence on the things about him. Before rain his dogs grow sleepy and dull, the cat constantly licks herself; geese gaggle in the pond, fowls and pigeons go early to roost, and the farm horses grow restless. Abroad, the ants are all hurry and scurry, rushing hither and thither; spiders crowd on the wall; toads emerge from their holes; and the garden paths are everywhere covered with slugs and snails. When the chaffinch says "weet, weet," it is an infallible sign of rain. As the rain draws nearer peacocks cry and frogs croak clamorously from the ditches. These are signs which almost every one has heard who lives in the country; though one of the surest ways of predicting weather changes is by observing the habits of snails. Snails never drink, but imbibe moisture during rain and exude it afterwards. They are seldom seen abroad except before rain, when they commence climbing trees and getting upon leaves. The tree snail is so sensitive to weather that it will commence to climb two days before the rain comes. If the downpour is to be prolonged, the snail seeks the under part of a leaf; but if a short or light rain is coming on, it stays on the outside. There is another species which is yellow before and bluish after it. Others indicate change by dents and protuberances resembling tubercles. These begin to show themselves ten days before rain, and when it comes the pores of the tubercles open and draw in the moisture. In others again deep indentations, beginning at the head between the horns and ending with the jointure of the tail, appear a few days before a storm.