Hollowdell Grange: Holiday Hours in a Country Home

by George Manville Fenn

Up the Camp Hill.

“Oh! isn’t this a pretty walk?” said Fred, later on in the day, as they were ascending the winding road that led up the Camp Hill, a road that at every turn disclosed fresh views over the surrounding country. The whole party were there—Mrs Inglis and all, and busy enough they were collecting sprays, flowers, and leaves, as they went along; for rich indeed was the hill in floral beauties, fresh and bright, as they had just burst forth into bloom. Fred was busy as a bee collecting everything, and getting confused, and placing in his tin box the same kinds of plants two or three times over: but Fred was no botanist, only eager to learn; and very hard and tiresome to remember he found the names his uncle told him. However, he soon learnt which were the pistils, stamens, petals, and calyx of a flower, while of the other terms, the less we say the better; for although Fred had read a little upon the subject, his notions of classes and orders were rather wild. But for all that, he much enjoyed his trip, for no one could have ascended that path without feeling admiration of the many beauties it disclosed. The path had been cut entirely through the wood which surrounded the hill, while the feet pressed at every step upon the soft green elastic turf, that here grew of the finest texture, and in the shortest strands. Nowhere else could be found such large heaths, with their beautiful pinky lilac bells looking as though moulded in wax; while harebells, orchids, anemones, arums, formed only a tithe of the rich banquet of flowers which awaited the collector—and a most staunch collector was Mr Inglis. He used to say that he was one of the most ignorant of men, and the more he collected the more he found that out. No doubt, if he had kept entirely to one science, he would have been more skilled therein; but he said he liked that idea of a famous essayist, who compared a man who devoted himself entirely to one thing, to a tree that sent forth a tremendously great bough in one direction, while the rest of the tree was composed of wretched little twigs. He considered it better to have a little knowledge upon a good many subjects, than to excel so greatly in one only.

The view from the Camp Hill was one that could not be seen everywhere, for it overlooked a wide tract of the richest farm land in England. It was called the Camp Hill from the entrenchment at the summit, for here had the Romans in days long gone by established one of those mighty works that, after fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen centuries, still exist by the score in our country, to show how powerful and highly-disciplined were the armies that the Roman Emperors sent into Britain. Fred was, however, rather disappointed at the Camp: he expected to have seen turrets and embrasures, and, if not cannon, at all events a few catapults and battering-rams. But no; there was nothing to be seen but a broad ditch encircling the summit of the hill, and now completely covered with trees and bushes, so that the bottom of the great trench formed a walk, where, even at mid-day, the sun’s rays were completely shut out, and where the nightingale would sing, all day as well as all night long.

I am ashamed to say that all three boys very soon tired of botanising, and were searching about the shady paths for anything or nothing, as the case might be. Now it was after butterflies; now the discordant cry of the jay told of its nest being, at hand; while every now and then the scampering rustle of a rabbit amidst the underwood would start the boys off in full chase, and in almost every instance the fruit of their hunt was, seeing the little white tail of the rabbit as its owner scuffled down its hole under some hazel stub. Once, while they were deep in the thickest shade, Philip gave a regular jump, for a great brown owl started from its roosting-place in an oak-tree, and softly and slowly flapped its way down the dell, but soon to have its flight quickened by a host of sandmartins, which began to mob the stolid-looking old fellow, till they all passed out of sight in a curve of the pathway.

Mr and Mrs Inglis were resting in a rustic seat placed opposite one of the openings in the trees, where there was a splendid view right out to sea; and while Mr Inglis was scanning the horizon with his telescope, the lads felt themselves quite at liberty to have a good ramble. Their first excursion was right round the hill, down in the trench, and here there was plenty to have taken their attention for a day: there was an ant-hill, swarming with those great black ants found in the woods, whose hill looks one lightly shovelled-up collection of earth: then, close at hand, they heard the regular “tip-tap” of the great green woodpecker; the harsh “pee-pee-peen” of the wryneck; while, from far off, floating upon the soft breeze, came the sweet bell-tones of the cuckoo. Directly after, came again the harsh cry of the jay, to be succeeded by the soft cooing of the cushat doves; and every interval was filled up by the bursts of song from the small finches, thrushes, and other denizens of the wooded hill. In one fir tree there was a pair of tiny gold-crested wrens, beautiful little birds, which seemed to consider that their insignificance was quite enough to keep them from harm. So tame were they that they could have been struck down by a stick, which would have been their fate but for the interposition of Philip, who seized his brother’s arm as he was raising his hand to deal the blow. In a box-tree they found the pretty covered-in nest of a bottle-tit, beautifully compact, with its tiny opening or doorway—feather-eaved—at the side. It was a great temptation, and hard to resist was the sight of that nest; it was only about five feet from the ground, and they could have cut off the branch and brought it away with the nest uninjured; but they contented themselves with marking the spot by cutting an arrow in the bark of one of the beech-trees, and promising themselves that they would have the nest when the birds had done with it. All at once a bird fluttered from a bush close by—a bird with a large head and marked in the wings with a good deal of white, and off went the boys in chase; but almost at the first start, Philip stumbled by catching his foot in a long bramble runner, and went down sprawling amongst the heather, with Harry upon his back, for he could not pull up time enough to prevent stumbling over his brother. Away went Fred, all alone, and very soon he captured the strange bird, for its wing had been broken; but the muscles of the great beak it had were in a good state of preservation, as Fred soon knew to his cost, by the nip the prisoned bird gave him.

Fred shouted out with the pain, but he had grown more stoical since his sojourn in the country, and he held on tightly to his prize, which Harry declared, when he saw it, was a chaffinch with a swelled head; but afterwards, when they brought it to Mr Inglis, he told the boys it was a fine male specimen of the hawfinch, or grosbeak, rather a rare bird in the British Isles. A temporary cage was made for the prisoner by tying him up in a pocket-handkerchief, and then the party continued their ramble, finding fresh objects to take their attention at every step. Once a weasel ran out into the path, sat up a moment to look at the strangers, and then disappeared on the other side.

Fred was for giving chase, but his cousins gave him to understand how fruitless such a task would be; so he gave up his intention, and onward they still went, with fresh beauties springing up before them every minute. If they had been botanically disposed, they might have filled their boxes with mosses and lichens, from the tiniest green to the bright orange golden that clung round the branches and sprays of the bushes. Some of the beeches were almost covered with grey or creamy patches, of the most beautiful patterns and tints; while wherever a rotten bough, or fallen tree, lay upon the ground, the moss seemed to have taken full possession, and completely covered it with a velvety pile.

“I’m so thirsty, Phil,” said Harry, all at once; “where’s the old spring?”

“Oh! ever so far down the hill; and I don’t know which side we are on now. Let’s get back to Papa: I know there’s something in the basket. Come along.”

“It’s no use to go back,” said Harry, “let’s go straight forward; they can’t be far-off; I’ll shout.”