Wild Life in a Southern County

by Richard Jefferies

Something moving yonder in the grass catches the eye; it is a reddish bushy tail, apparently without a body, yet held nearly upright, and moving hither and thither in a quick, nervous way. Suddenly down it goes, and the squirrel raises himself on his haunches to listen to some suspicious sound, holding his forefeet something like a kangaroo. Then he recommences searching and the tail rises, alone visible above the tall grass. Now he bounds, and as his body passes through the air the tail extends behind and droops so that he seems to form an arch. After working along ten or fifteen yards in one direction, he stops, turns sharp round, and comes all the way back again. Some distance farther, under the trees, two more are frisking about, and a rabbit has come to nibble the grass in the open.

Looking across to the other side, where the fern recommences, surely there was a movement as if a branch was shaken; and a branch that, on second thought, is in such a position that it cannot be connected with any tree. Again, and then the head and neck of a stag are lifted above the fern. He is attacking a tree—rubbing his antlers against a low branch, much as if he were fighting it. He is not a hundred yards off; it would be easy to get nearer, surely, by stalking him carefully, gliding from tree trunk to tree trunk under the beeches.

At the first step the squirrel darts to the nearest beech; and although it seems to have no boughs or projections low down, he is up it in a moment, going round the trunk in a spiral. A startling clatter resounds overhead: it is a wood-pigeon that had come quietly and settled on a tree close by, without being noticed, and now rises in great alarm. But it is a sound to which the deer are so accustomed that they take no notice. There is little underwood here beneath the beeches, but the beechmast lies thick, and there are dead branches, which if stepped on will crack loudly.

A weasel rushes past almost under foot; he has been following his prey so intently as not to have observed where he was going. He utters a strange startled ‘yap,’ or something between that and the noise usually made by the lips to encourage a horse, and makes all speed into the fern. These are the happy hunting-grounds of the weasels.

During spring and summer—so long as the grass, clover, and corn crops are standing, and are the cover in which partridges and other birds have their nests—the weasels and stoats haunt the fields, being safe from observation (while in the crops) and certain of finding a dinner. Then, if you watch by a gap in the hedge, or look through a gateway into the cornfield, you may be almost certain of seeing one at least; in a morning’s walk in summer I have often seen two or three weasels in this way. The young rabbits and leverets are of course their prey also. But after the corn is cut you may wait and watch a whole day in the fields and not see a weasel. They have gone to the thick mounds, the covers, woods, and forests, and therein will hunt the winter through.

The stag is still feeding peacefully; he is now scarce fifty yards away, when he catches sight and is off. His body as he bounds seems to keep just above the level of the fern. It is natural to follow him, though of course in vain; the mead is left behind, and once more there is a wall of fern on either side of the path. After a while a broad green drive opens, and is much more easy to walk along. But where does it go? for presently it divides into two, and then the fork pursued again branches. Hush! what is that clattering? It sounds in several directions, but nothing is visible.

Then a sharp turn of the drive opens on a long narrow grassy valley, which is crowded with deer. Parties of thirty or forty are grazing; and yonder, farther away by themselves, there must be nearly a hundred fawns. Standing behind a tree, it is a pleasant sight to watch them; but after a while comes back the thought, dismissed contemptuously long since—the afternoon is advancing, and is it possible to be lost? The truth is we are lost for the time.

It is impossible to retrace one’s footsteps, the paths and drives are so intricate, and cross and branch so frequently. There are no landmarks. Perhaps from the rising ground across the valley a view may be obtained. On emerging into the open, the whole herd of deer and fawns move slowly into the forest and disappear. From the hill there is nothing visible but trees. If a tree be climbed to get a look-out, there is still nothing but trees. Following a green drive as a forlorn hope, there comes again the rattling as of clubs and spears, and strange grunting sounds. It is the bucks fighting; and they are not altogether safe to approach. But time is going on; unless we can soon discover the way, we may have to remain till the tawny wood-owls flit round the trees.

There comes the tinkle-tinkle of a bell: a search shows two or three cows, one of which, after the fashion of the old time, carries a bell. She comes and butts one playfully, and insists on her poll being rubbed. Then there is more grunting, but of a different kind—this time easily recognised: it is a herd of swine searching for the beechmast and acorns. With them, fortunately, comes the swineherd—a lad, who shows a drive which leads to the nearest edge of the forest.

Half an hour after leaving the swineherd, a rabbit is found sitting on his haunches, motionless, with the head drooping on one side. He takes no notice—he is dying. Just beneath one ear is a slight trace of blood—it is the work of a weasel, who fled on hearing approaching footsteps. Soon a film must form over the beautiful eye of the hunted creature: let us in mercy strike him a sharp blow on the head with the heavy end of the walking-stick, and so spare him the prolonged sense of death. A hundred yards further is a gate, and beyond that an arable field. On coming near the gate a hawk glides swiftly downwards over the hedge that there joins the forest. A cloud of sparrows instantly rise from the stubble, and fly chirping in terror to the hedge for shelter; but one is too late, the hawk has him in his talons. Yonder is a row of wheat ricks, the fresh straw with which they have just been covered contrasting with the brown thatch of the farmhouse in the hollow. There a refreshing glass of ale is forthcoming, and the way is pointed out.