THE CONTRAST
THE wealth of foliage, leaves at their largest, is responsible for the gloom of the wood; beneath the trees all is in shade, though dappled with circular light patches, where a beam has found a pinhole or crack to penetrate. It is difficult to push one's way through the undergrowth, the saplings are so tough, and brambles, armed with clinging, tearing hooks, trail everywhere in the waist-high grass. The litter of old reed-stems is hidden by the new growth, but jagged broken staves wait for the unwary foot, and the ancient stocks of cut osiers cause one to stumble; it is easy to step from the Wood into the water, so similar is the terrestrial and aquatic vegetation. Purple and yellow loosestrife push their showy heads above the sedges; young willows and birches are surrounded by reeds and rushes. Above the sapling sycamores stand the staunch old oaks, the graceful birches, and the sombre firs; nearer the water are gnarled willows and alders, whose roots straggle out over the water, for winter storms have washed the soil between them.
Few birds are singing, though they are by no means silent; call notes, to and from youngsters, resound on every hand. Yet in the dense leafage the birds are barely visible. We catch the flash of the white wing-bar of the chaffinch which is hunting aphides in the tops; we hear the wheezy, insistent cries of juvenile starlings, the luit of the anxious willow wren, the low chitter of the reed-warbler near the water's edge. The dunnock, in neat quaker garb, pipes beneath the evergreens as it turns over the leaves of last autumn; the great tit calls sharply,
161
