A walk with my uncle is one of my greatest pleasures, dear mamma.—I was ready in a minute—and to the beech-walk we went; but it was no longer a dull walk; all he says is so delightful, and he listens so patiently to every question. After a few turns, in which I entirely forgot the North-east wind, he said, “There is no place, my little Bertha, that does not present some objects of interest to those who choose to open their eyes. For instance, even on this rough ditch, and on the old wall that joins it, you may see a curious variety of vegetation, which your finest embroidery cannot equal. Look at those mosses; they are among the meanest plants, yet there is not one that is not worth examining. The fructification is still to be seen on that tuft of bearded thread moss. Take your little magnifying glass and look at the cup which is so delicate, and yet so firm, its edge strengthened by that finely toothed ring, to which the slender conical lid is exactly fitted; its pointed top, you see, serves to attach that little shining scaly membrane, which is the principal defence of the flower and seed from the weather, and which is called the veil or Calyptra.
“Now, Bertha, look at this silver thread moss, here on the walk, with its diminutive leaves so closely pressed to the stem as to be hardly visible; it is now quite green, but in some weeks it will become of a shining silvery white, especially when dry; and this circumstance distinguishes it from all other mosses.”
I asked him the name of the moss that is so common on the roots of the trees, creeping through the grass round them, and growing in tufts of long crowded shoots;—he told me that those long crowded shoots mark that species, and he shewed me the brown fibres by which they cling to the trees; and the leaves which grow in double rows, ending in little crooked hairs; he called it the trailing feather moss. He seemed to take as much pleasure in explaining a thousand things about them as I did in listening. How stupidly I had walked up and down there, and never cast my eyes on the beautiful structure of these little plants! We then examined several lichens, some in tufts hanging from the branches of trees and bushes, or encircling them with their crisp flat leaves; others covering the stems with an odd white crust; while on the damp earth beneath we found the cup lichen in deep sea-green patches, displaying its tiny cups like fairy wine-glasses.
“On those stones,” said my uncle, “you may trace the beginning of all vegetation, from the little black spots, which are scarcely discernible, to the larger lichens and mosses of different forms and sizes. Or, let us turn to the grassy bank, and you may there see a great number of herbaceous plants still green, mixing with that useful grass, the creeping bent, which throws out fresh pasture at this late season from the joints of its runners or stolones.”
He shewed me many of these plants; and more than once said, “Everything here is interesting to persons of observation, and particularly so to those who know something of botany. But they are not merely for momentary examination—the variety and the design, to be found in each, supply ample subject of reflection.”
Just at that moment I heard a shrill cry, and I interrupted my uncle to ask what it was.
He told me that it was the alarm-cry of the fieldfare, and pointed to a large tree at the end of the walk, where a number of fieldfares and redwings, lately arrived from a colder climate, had collected.
“You see,” said my uncle, “that even without any fine picturesque view, you may have abundance of amusement here, not only in observing the growth of mosses and plants, but in watching the habits of birds. You may see the little woodpecker, and the still smaller creeper running nimbly up the stems of the trees, and pecking insects and their eggs out of the crevices of the bark; or the fauvette and the friendly robin waiting on every spray for a little notice; while in the thickets to the left you may see the missel thrush, and may sometimes distinguish its note, though it does not actually sing at this season.”
As my uncle said this, we approached the tree on which the fieldfares were perched: they seemed at first unmindful of us; but, as we came nearer, one bird which I had observed sitting alone at the very end of a branch, rose suddenly on its wings and gave a cry of alarm, which was the same I had heard before. The moment this happened, they all flew off together, except one, which remained there till we almost reached the tree, when it repeated the same cry and followed the rest.
My uncle told me that this is the constant habit of these birds; they arrive late in autumn, and always collect in a flock, placing one on the watch to give the alarm. When they spread over a field in search of food, they never separate much, and fly off in a body at the first notice of their sentinel. The redwing sings sweetly in its native country, Sweden, though here it makes only a piping noise. As we walked along, he told me that fieldfares were formerly kept in aviaries by the Romans, who fattened them on bread and minced figs; during which process very little light was admitted, and all objects were excluded from their sight, that could remind them of their former liberty. We watched these birds for a long time; and as we returned home my uncle said, “But in suggesting these subjects of observation, Bertha, I do not mean that you should always stand still in the cold to examine them; nor do I suppose that in one walk you could attend to such a variety of objects. I only want to shew you how much amusement a solitary winter’s walk, even along a dull straight high ditch, can supply for both eyes and thoughts.