COUNTRYSIDE RAMBLES
by W.S. Furneaux
Table of Contents
Part I: Spring
(2) Opening Buds
(3) The Reappearance of Hibernating Creatures
(5) How Plants Climb
Part II: Summer
(2) Hedgerows
(4) By the Stream
Part III: Autumn
(1) In the Woods
(2) Autumn Tints
(4) Autumn Fruits
(5) The Dispersion of Seeds and Fruits
Part IV: Winter
(1) The Winter Condition of Plants
(2) Trees in Winter
(3) Winter Buds
(5) Winter Flowers
(6) Evergreens
Plates
Plate II
Plate III
Plate IV
Plate V
Plate VI
Plate VII
Plate VIII
Plate IX
Plate X
Plate XI
Plate XII
Plate XIII
Plate XIV
Plate XV
Plate XVI
Plate XVII
Plate XVIII
Plate XIX
Plate XX
Plate XXI
Plate XXII
Plate XXIII
Plate XXIV
Plate XXV
Plate XXVI
Plate XXVII
Plate XXVIII
Plate XXIX
Plate XXX
Plate XXXI
Plate XXXII
Plate XXXIII
Plate XXXIV
Plate XXXV
Plate XXXVI
Plate XXXVII
Plate XXXVIII
Plate XXXIX
Plate XL
Plate XLI
Plate XLII
Plate XLIII
Plate XLIV
Plate XLV
Plate XLVI
This little book is an attempt to help those who are interested in the works of Nature by calling attention to many of the more striking objects and phenomena which reveal themselves to the country rambler. So many subjects are dealt with that individual descriptions are necessarily very brief and imperfect, but the object of the work is not so much to supply detailed information for home reading as to arouse an increased desire to study the beauties and wonders of the countryside--to encourage a careful observation of the former and an independent investigation of the latter. Doubtless much pleasure and profit are to be gained by the mere reading of Nature's wonderful works, but such advantages are not to be compared with the intense pleasure and satisfaction which rewards those who search out the beauties with their own eyes and attempt to solve the mysteries by their own efforts.
It is hoped that this little volume will lead many to take a living interest in their surroundings during their countryside rambles.Part I: Spring
Chapter 1 - The Awakening of Nature
Spring is the season of the general awakening of Nature. During the cold months of late autumn and winter many of Nature's creatures have been in repose; but now, called forth by the gradually increasing power of the sun's rays, they resume their life of activity. Thus spring, with all its promises of renewed life and vigour, following a comparatively dull season of chilly sleep, is welcomed by all, but especially by the lover of Nature, who delights to watch the ever-increasing response to the call of the ascending sun.
The first signs of returning life are visible long before the winter is really over; for although the night frosts are still keen, and the atmosphere by day often very cold, yet the occasional intervals of bright sunshine arouse many slumberers from their necessary rest. So we find the hazel in full bloom, and often the yew, elm, alder, and other trees; while many of our favourite spring flowers lift their blossoms before the snows have ceased to fall. Many hibernating creatures, too, leave their winter homes under the influence of a genial sun, perhaps only to return on the approach of another spell of wintry weather.
But with the real advent of spring new changes are to be witnessed every day. New vegetable growth appears in great abundance. The ground herbage shoots upward with astonishing rapidity, soon overtopping the dead stalks and leaves of the previous year. The trees and shrubs, one after another, are tipped with green as their bud-scales expand and reveal the tender leaves they enclosed; and new flowers are constantly appearing everywhere.
Some plants died to the roots before the winter set in, but not until they had scattered seeds for the perpetuation of their species; and now we see hundreds and thousands of their offspring thrusting their tiny leaves above the soil. Even the seeds of these plants must necessarily take their period of rest; and as some require a longer sleep than others, we find some of the seedlings appearing long after others have made a sturdy growth.
Many plants died down to the ground while the portions beneath the surface continued to live. Most of these laid up a store of food material in their stocks, tubers, bulbs, or creeping underground stems; and thus they are able to produce strong growths with great rapidity as soon as the temperature becomes favourable.
In woodlands it is interesting to watch the growth of seedling forest trees. Here we see hundreds, even thousands, of little beech trees, oaks, birches, ash, etc., just peeping above the soil; often so thickly placed that they could not possibly attain any great size; but they are exposed to so many dangers that, regardless of position, only a very small proportion are able to survive. In many cases these seedlings are or from their parent trees, but this is due to the fact that the seeds (or fruits) were no constructed that they were easily carried by the breeze, or that they were scattered by the agency of wild birds or quadrupeds.
As regards animal life, there are many creatures that do not spend the winter in repose, for they are able to obtain their natural food throughout the cold season. Thus the herbivorous rabbit can always find a meal of green food except when the ground is covered with snow, and then it will attack the bark of young trees; birds can nearly always obtain the seeds, berries, grubs, etc., which form their winter diet; and the carnivorous fox, stoat, and weasel seldom search in vain for their prey; but most of our other wild creatures are compelled to sleep through the cold season, either because their natural food is not to be found, or because they are unable to withstand the severe winter weather.
And now, in early spring, these creatures are aroused by the warm rays that have penetrated to their hiding-places, and one by one they reveal themselves to us as we take our rambles.
Frogs and toads return to their ponds while yet they may be imprisoned by a barrier of thick ice, and even on a frosty night their croakings fill the air. A bit later in the season the little hibernating and winter-hiding quadrupeds resume their active life. Soon we hear the familiar rustle of the little lizards as they rapidly dart away amongst the herbage of a sunny bank, and again observe the gliding movement of the snake as it rapidly seeks cover when we intrude in its haunts.
Then the air becomes more and more thickly peopled with insect life day by day. The very first warm and bright spell of sunshine entices the hibernating butterflies and other insects from their winter retreats, among them the queen wasps and wild bees which are, in most cases, the sole survivors of the large families of the previous summer. And as soon as the warmth of the sun has penetrated an inch or so into the soil, the numerous pupae, which have escaped the ravages of insectivorous creatures, burst open their brittle cases and emerge with new-formed wings, soon filling the air with myriads of flies, butterflies, moths, and other denizens of the air.
These early insects soon find their mates, and it is not long before millions of tiny eggs give rise to as many little grubs which immediately commence their ravages on the new tender leaves and flowers of herbs and trees.
So, as the spring advances, fields, hedgerows, woodlands, and wild wastes teem with increasing animal and vegetable life, newly aroused from its winter sleep by the genial sun; and the air is filled with the soft hum of insect life, the twitterings and joy-peals of birds, and the sweet odours of opening flowers.
We ourselves are influenced by the warmth and brightness of this enchanting season, and we long to ramble over the countryside where freshness breathes and all sleeping things are brought to active life again.
Few features of the spring attract more attention than the bursting of the buds on our forest trees and shrubs. In fact, the appearance of the little touches of delicate green on the tips and sides of twigs which, for several months, have revealed no outward signs of life, is often regarded as one of the principal indications of the opening of the season. And the general effect of these numerous patches of green, standing out in bold contrast with the sombre background, is so pleasing to the eye, and, withal, no full of promise, that one may well wander by hedgerows and through wood and copse with no other object than to enjoy an open view of the swelling verdure.
It is interesting, too, to note the varied tints of the new foliage of different trees, ranging from a very pale yellowish green to olive and bronze; to watch the rapid progress of the young leaves as they emerge from the grasp of the brown scales which have enclosed them since the previous summer; and to observe the order in which different species respond to the call of spring. But we shall do more than this, for we wish to watch the gradual expanding of individual buds in order to see how the young leaves were folded so compactly in their winter homes; to observe them as they slowly expand; and to see the wonderful provisions made to shield the tender leaves from the dangers to which they are at first exposed.
To carry out such observations we must either pay frequent visits to the budding trees, or adopt some means by which we can watch the expansion of buds at home.
Very frequently we are able to find buds in various stages of development all on the same branch; and when this is the case we have a good opportunity of studying the history of the opening buds by passing our attention from one to another, in proper order. Thus you may often see a small twig of the beech tree bearing buds that show no signs of opening beyond the loosening of the outer brown scales, together with several others in which the young leaves have emerged and commenced to unfold.
But quite a large number of buds will open if the twigs bearing them are placed in water or wet sand, and these may be closely watched at home. Yet twigs selected for this purpose should not be cut too early in the season. Buds must have their natural period of rest; and it is best not to cut twigs for the purpose suggested until the loosening of the scales shows that the buds are ready to expand.
Among the buds that may be successfully treated in this manner we may especially mention the horse-chestnut, beech, sycamore, poplar, and willow. But it must be remembered that there are limits to the growth of young leaves when treated in this way, for they are not supplied with their natural food. Yet the progress they make is quite sufficient for our present purpose, which is to see how the leaves are folded in the bud, and to watch them as they gradually assume their later forms and positions.
It is remarkable that the twigs of some trees, particularly those of poplars and willows, readily form roots when placed in a vessel of water; and these, if supplied with an ordinary mineral fertilizer, or transferred to damp soil, will soon develop into perfect, self-supporting trees; and their leaves will then grow to their full size.
Now let us examine some of the more interesting of the opening buds. Here (Plate I) are some of the beech tree, in different stages. At first the overlapping brown scales which tightly embraced the embryo leaves gradually relax themselves; and, shortly after, a peculiar little mass of closely-folded leaves, covered with silky hair, protrudes at the tip.
When a little farther advanced, we see that the young leaves, which are of a very light and delicate green colour, are folded in a manner that suggests the concertina, or the bellows of a photographic camera, that there is a vein at each projecting angle, and that the whole is protected by a dense covering of tiny hairs. Later still, each leaf widens, so that the veins are slightly separated, and the green tissue is rather more exposed. Even when the leaf has almost assumed its full size it still retains an indication of its former folds, and now we are aware that the silky hairs, which at first formed a complete covering, occupy the edges and the lower sides of the veins only, while the delicate green tissue between is bare and glossy.
Now let us see the reason for this. In the first place we must note that the space within the scales of the leaf-buds, not only of the beech, but of all our trees, is very limited, so that it is necessary for the little leaves within to be compactly folded, crumpled, or rolled. At the same time, the veins of these young leaves are always very prominent and well-formed, while the thin tissue between them is at present only slightly developed. This latter feature is a valuable protection to the leaves; for the thin skin or epidermis covering the blades of the leaves is, as yet, very thin, and not impermeable to water; and if there were a considerable surface of this imperfectly protected tissue, the young leaves would lose much of their moisture and die on dry sunny days. Further, all young leaves retain their folds, crinkles, or scrolls for a time after they have become free; for, in this condition, the thin substance between the veins, still covered with an exceedingly thin epidermis, is less exposed to sun and wind.
In the case of the opening buds of the beech, while the above conditions hold, there is a further protection against drying up afforded by the hairs. We have seen that these hairs exist only on the veins and margins of the young leaves; but at first, when the thin tissue is completely hidden within the folds, and the veins and margins only are exposed, the silky covering is complete. After the leaves have partially expanded, and the outer wall of the epidermis is becoming thicker, the covering of hairs, so necessary at first to shield them from dry winds, is now not so essential; and, later still, when the leaves are fully extended, and sufficiently protected by their perfectly-formed epidermis, the hairs, being no longer required, gradually fall, so that old beech leaves are quite or almost free from them.
The leaves of the hornbeam tree are very like those of the beech, with the same strong, parallel veins; and they are folded in the same manner within the bud, so that the above remarks apply also to them (Plate I).
If you examine the opening buds of our common forest trees, you will find that in several of them the young leaves are protected from sun and wind by a covering of hairs. Among them we may mention the white poplar, mountain ash, wild pear, and the wayfaring tree--a shrub rather than a tree, very common in the hedgerows of South England, more especially in chalky districts; and, as in the case of the beech, the hairs partially or entirely disappear as the leaves become older. The hairy coat of the last named (the wayfaring tree) reveals a wonderful structure when examined under the microscope; for each hair has several branches all radiating from one point, like the rays of a star, and the branches intermingle so thickly that they form a natural felt.
Some young leaves, not provided with a hairy coat, are protected against loss of moisture by a thin covering of natural varnish that is waterproof; but this, like the hairs, disappears when such protection is no longer necessary.
Again, some newly-exposed leaves, not protected or not sufficiently protected by the means above mentioned, adopt curious devices for the prevention of loss of moisture. One interesting example will be seen in the young leaves of the horse-chestnut. These leaves are compound, each consisting of five or seven leaflets. As they first issue from the bud the leaflets stand erect and close together, thus sheltering one another from the sun. Then, after becoming so long that this position is no longer possible, the leaflets sink, and hang perpendicularly with their points towards the ground. In this position they do not catch so many of the sun's rays. Finally, when the epidermis is well formed, and the light and heat of the sun become necessary for the functions the leaves have to perform, the leaflets rise and spread themselves horizontally. These precautions appear to be necessary even though the young leaves have a rather dense covering of woolly hair (Plate I).
Another protective device will be observed in the young foliage of the wild cherry. Here the new leaves are folded only down the middle--along the midrib; and for a time they remain flatly folded in this manner, so that much of their surface is shielded from the sun.
A still more interesting example is afforded by the opening buds of the wayfaring tree already mentioned. When first the leaves appear they stand erect, as is the case with many other species, because in that position they are less exposed to the sun. At this time, too, they are much folded, and the veins are so strongly developed that they touch one another, completely hiding and protecting the deep folds of the green tissue between them. Then the leaves are also arranged in pairs, and are convex on the outer side, so that the margins of each pair fit closely together, forming a closed case round the growing apex of the new shoot (Plate II). In addition to all these protective measures, there is the thick, felted coat of hairs already mentioned covering the outer surfaces. As the leaves further develop, and the epidermis is well formed, the veins become farther apart, and the leaves lose their folds and take a horizontal position.
After observing a variety of opening buds we soon come to the conclusion that the so-called 'leaf-buds' are really undeveloped branches, for each one eventually gives rise to a complete branch or twig. In many instances the branches bear flowers in addition to leaves, while some buds give flower-clusters only, or flowers with only a few scale-like leaves. We also learn that while some trees produce their leaves before their flowers, others, like the oak, bring forth leaves and flowers at the same time; and others, again, produce their flowers before their leaves, like the hazel, ash, elm, sloe, and some of the willows and poplars.
It may appear strange that some of our trees should produce their flowers so early in the year--often long before the winter is at an end; but there are various reasons why this should be so. In not a few instances the fruits ripen so slowly that the coming winter frosts would destroy them before they were mature if they had not a very early start. Again, the very early flowers that come before the leaves probably have a much better chance of being fertilized in the absence of foliage. If their pollen is distributed by the wind, they are so exposed to the breeze that the process is more likely to be successful; and even if they require the aid of insects it is probable that their prominence compensates for the comparatively small number of insects at present on the wing.
Chapter 3 - The Reappearance of Hibernating Creatures
The genial warmth of early spring, which calls the young leaves from their winter homes, also entices numberless animal creatures from their respective hiding-places. But the latter do not, as a rule, attract so much attention as the bursting buds. They do not form a distinctive feature of the landscape, and are generally so shy or so skilfully hidden by their surroundings that they are not often seen except by those who search for them. Yet they are all exceedingly interesting; for, in addition to their varied forms and colourings, often really beautiful, they exhibit a variety of movements that render them especially attractive.
If you wish to make the acquaintance of these creatures you must be prepared to exercise some amount of patience, but you will seldom do so without reward. A noiseless saunter beside a sunny bank, the weedy border of a field, or along the edge of a wood or coppice, will often enable you to see a timid creature that would dart under cover at an abrupt intrusion. Or, remain quietly at rest in a favourable spot, and, sooner or later, some little animal will approach you so closely that you can observe its every movement. If you
are previously acquainted with the haunts of certain creatures you wish to observe, so much the better; but, even without such knowledge, a careful selection of a post of observation will almost surely lead to success.
A few of the so-called hibernating animals are really only partial hibernators or winter hiders. These generally lay up a store of food for the cold season; and, awaking from their slumbers on a mild day, indulge in a meal and a certain amount of exercise. When, however, the frosts are all over, they commence a life of almost unbroken activity.
The squirrel is one of these partial hibernators. In very early spring you may see it—or, rather, them, for they generally live in pairs—running and leaping among the branches of trees, and occasionally descending to the ground to unearth some of the remains of their winter store. When the latter is exhausted, they will feed on young shoots, buds, and the bark of young branches until a fresh supply of nuts and beech-mast has ripened. All their movements are graceful and interesting; and if you approach their haunts cautiously, and remain quite still, they will proceed with their antics just as if unobserved. Before the spring is quite over they build their summer nest, usually in the fork of a tree, intertwining dead grass and thin twigs with moss and dead leaves. The whole mass so closely resembles the bark of the tree in colour that frequently the nest is scarcely noticeable from below. Here, in or about June, the female brings forth three or four blind and naked youngsters.
The pretty little dormouse, another partial hibernator, is just like a tiny squirrel in appearance, but its tail is not quite so bushy. Like the latter, it lives chiefly in trees, and feeds in a sitting posture on its haunches, holding its food between its hands; but it is chiefly nocturnal in its habits, so that it should be looked for in the evening at dusk. It has a beautiful tawny coat, against which the large black eyes are very conspicuous. Dormice leave their winter quarters permanently in late March or in April, and it is not long before they build their summer nests, either in underwood, two or three feet from the ground, or in a dense tuft of dead grass or other herbage. Towards the end of the present season you may see in each nest three or four young, blind and naked.
In fields and hedgebanks we may meet with another of the partial hibernators—the common field-mouse. This creature is very like the mouse which infests town houses, but is distinctly reddish above, and whitish beneath. Its tail is about as long as head and body together. Although chiefly nocturnal in its habits, it is often at large in broad daylight. Frequently it spends the whole winter in country houses, or in barns, cornstacks and haystacks, and then does not appear to hibernate at all (Plate II).
Now let us note the principal of the true hibernators, remembering that even these do not spend the whole of the winter in a continuous state of torpidity. A temperature of about fifty degrees is sufficient to arouse most of them from their winter sleep, although the additional stimulus of bright sunshine is necessary to restore the diurnal species to a state of real activity. They are often enticed from their winter quarters by mild weather in very early spring, only to be driven back again by late frosts and snows; but, as a rule, they bid a permanent farewell to their hiding-places about the end of March or the beginning of April.
One of these is the beautiful little harvest mouse, which measures not much more than four inches in length, including the tail of about two inches. It is of a reddish yellow colour above, and white beneath; and may often be seen in cornfields and rough pastures. Sometimes it will spend the winter in stacks of hay or straw, and is then kept sufficiently warm to remain active throughout the season, feeding on such seeds or grain as it can find. It does not usually construct its summer nest till the end of spring or early summer; and this nest is a wonderful structure—a globular mass of intertwined grass blades, usually suspended from stalks of corn, with the aperture so artfully concealed that it is by no means easily found. Should you succeed in finding one of these nests, take up a position from which you can watch the owners, if only to see the manner in which they climb the smooth straws, curling their little tails round the latter to increase their hold.
Strolling over meadows or rough pastures, and intently keeping your eyes on the ground, you are almost sure to make the acquaintance of the little shrew, also known as the shrew-mouse and the short-tailed field-mouse. But it is not a mouse, nor does it belong to the same order. The creatures we have previously named belong to the group of animals known as rodents or gnawers, and are easily known by the few sharp, chisel-like teeth in the front of each jaw, separated by a considerable space from the grinding teeth at the back, as may be seen in the skull of a rabbit (Plate II). All these rodents live principally, if not entirely, on vegetable substances. But the shrew has pointed teeth, the front ones long and somewhat sickle-shaped; and it feeds entirely on an animal diet, consisting principally of insects, worms, slugs, and snails. It may easily be distinguished from field-mice by its long, pointed snout, and its short tail which is not so long as the body. Shrews live in holes in the ground; and at the present season are engaged in rearing their young. It is remarkable that dogs, cats, and other carnivorous animals which devour mice readily will not eat shrews. The reason is that shrews have a strong, repulsive scent which, although it preserves them from the attacks of some creatures, does not prevent them from being worried or tortured to death by cats and dogs (Plate II).
Hedgehogs are also now at large after their winter sleep. They belong to the same order as the shrew; but, being larger and stronger, they attack larger game in addition to insects and worms, even feeding on lizards, snakes, mice, and young birds from the nest. Since hedgehogs are chiefly nocturnal in their habits the best time to look for them is the evening, just about sundown; but they often come out to feed during the brighter hours of the day. Although the hedgehog can run fairly quickly, it will generally put itself on the defensive when surprised, curling up its body, with head, tail, and feet all tucked away out of sight, so that it becomes a ball with sharp spines radiating in every direction. Should you want to take it for future examination, roll it into a handkerchief spread on the ground, and pick it up by the corners of the latter. If kept in captivity it soon becomes very tame, will cease to curl itself into a ball when touched, and will feed from the hand (Plate III).
As soon as the air is sufficiently mild to call many insects on the wing, bats are aroused from their winter sleep, and come out every evening to feed. They may be seen soon after sunset flitting through the air in search of their insect food, which they always catch on the wing. At the same time you may hear their piercing squeak, so high-pitched, by the way, that some human ears cannot perceive it; and also the crunching of beetles and other hard-skinned insects as they are crushed in the creatures’ jaws.
Bats, of which there are many British species, are strange animals. They are not birds, but insectivorous mammals, bringing forth their young alive, and suckling them with their milk. Their bodies are covered with fur much like that of a mouse, and their wings consist of a very thin membrane extending between long, slender fingers, the sides of the body, and the tail.
If it is desired to examine a bat closely one can best be secured by searching in its hiding-place during the day. Church towers, barns, hollow trees, and dark spaces under the roofs of houses are favourite resorts; and here bats may be found hanging, head downwards, by their hooked hind claws, fast asleep. They may often be caught in an ordinary butterfly-net while in flight, but this method of capture not unfrequently leads to the breaking of the delicate wings.
Now let us wander beside a sunny bank on a bright day, or on the sunny slopes of ground partially covered with clumps of heather and furze, walking very slowly and cautiously with eyes on the ground. At times we hear a rustling sound as of a rapid retreat, and may just catch a glimpse of a lizard as it darts away to a safe cover. But, continuing our search, proceeding very slowly, we at last find one which is undecided as to the presence of actual danger, and remains perfectly still as we look at it, yet always on the alert and ready to scamper away at the slightest threatening movement (Plate IV).
These little creatures are true reptiles, recently aroused from their winter sleep. They are often confused with newts or efts, from which they are quite distinct. Lizards have a dry, scaly skin, and never live in water, while newts have a soft, moist skin like that of a frog, and, when young, live entirely in water, breathing by means of gills like a fish.
Should you desire to catch a lizard, you may do so by a very quick movement of the hand; but grasp it bodily, avoiding the long tail, for the creature has a way of rendering its tail very brittle, snapping it off by a sharp movement, and darting away, leaving the still wriggling tail in your grasp. The lizard will probably bite you, but its teeth, though sharp, are so small that they cannot penetrate the skin.
Lizards make very interesting pets. They soon become very tame, and adapt themselves well to captivity; but when procuring or making a case in which to keep them, remember that they are good climbers, and can easily ascend any perpendicular surface that is not quite smooth. They should be fed on insects, grubs, spiders, and small worms.
While searching in the haunts of the common lizard, you will probably meet with a creature that looks like a small snake, not much more than a foot in length, if so long, with a smooth body covered all over with tiny scales (Plate IV).
This is the blindworm or slow-worm, also recently emerged from its hibernating quarters. It is not a snake, but a lizard without legs. Its habits are somewhat similar to those of the common lizard, though it is not so rapid in its movements. Having no limbs, it has to glide along after the manner of a snake; but it has the notched tongue of a lizard, movable eyelids (snakes have none), and the same habit of snapping its tail when caught by that part. It feeds principally on slugs and earthworms; and, like the common lizard, lives well in captivity. It seldom attempts to bite its captor, and is in every way perfectly harmless.
Snakes, too, have just left their winter retreats, and may now be seen in their usual haunts in wild districts. There are only two species of British snakes, the ringed snake or grass snake, and the viper or adder. The former inhabits damp, grassy places, especially in the neighbourhood of woods and coppices; and the latter dry heaths and moors. Yet they do not strictly confine themselves to these respective habitats, and it is not at all uncommon to meet with both species in the same spot (Plate IV).
Every countryside rambler ought to know how to readily recognise these two reptiles; for while the grass snake is perfectly harmless, and becomes an interesting pet in confinement, the viper is venomous. Both vary very much in their general colour, especially the viper; so that it is not always easy to recognise them at a distance without noting their characteristic markings. The grass snake is of a greyish-olive colour above, but often very dark; and greenish yellow beneath, checkered with a very variable amount of black. Behind the head, above, there are two yellow or orange spots that give the appearance of a ring or collar (hence the name ‘ringed snake’), behind which there are two rather large black spots. The upper surface of the body is marked with several rows of alternating black spots, but there is no continuous series of spots forming a line down the middle of the back.
The ground colour of the viper (Plate IV) varies from a pale grey to a dark reddish brown, but it may always be known by the large lozenge-shaped spots which, joined together, form a continuous zigzag line down the middle of the back. Its head is broader, proportionately, than that of the ringed snake, and is flatter above; and on its upper side there is a conspicuous black V-shaped mark.
Both these snakes cast their scales a few times every season, and the finding of a complete coat of one of them is sometimes the first intimation that one is intruding on its haunt.
Frogs and toads are perhaps the earliest of all hibernating creatures to bid a final farewell to their winter homes. The former especially quit their retreat so early that it is not at all uncommon to see them actually imprisoned in ice in the ponds to which they have returned to lay their eggs; and the eggs themselves are frequently held ice-bound in late February or early March.
In early spring almost every pond resounds with their song; and it is easy to distinguish between the croak of the frog and that of the toad, for the latter is decidedly musical compared with the former. The toad is shown on Plate V.
Newts or efts do not appear quite so early, but even these may be seen in ponds and amongst damp grass very early in the season.
On any warm, sunny day our beautiful hibernating butterflies may be seen on the wing, the males employed principally in sucking nectar from the spring flowers, and the females in searching out the food-plants of their future progeny of caterpillars, and depositing their eggs thereon. These butterflies include some of the most beautiful of our British species, and the commonest of them are shown on Plate XXXIV. They emerged from the chrysalis the previous summer, and live till about the end of spring, so that they exist in the winged state for more than three-fourths of the year.
It must not be supposed, however, that all the butterflies seen in spring are hibernators, for many of them are early species of the present year, having spent the winter either as grubs or as chrysalides.
A number of moths also hibernate during the winter, but these are not so likely to attract the attention of the ordinary countryside rambler, for the majority of them do not fly till dusk; yet they, together with early non-hibernating species, enter houses through open windows in the evening, attracted by lights within. A few of these are shown on Plate XLII.
On warm spring days we often observe solitary wasps, always of unusually large size. These are the queens, the only survivors of the numerous large colonies that pestered us so much the previous summer. If you watch them you will frequently notice that they are searching for a suitable hole in which to establish a nest. Each one (accidents excepted) is destined to be the mother of a large family; and each one destroyed in the spring means one wasp’s nest less in the coming summer.
The females of many of our wild bees also hibernate during the winter, and may now be seen seeking desirable residences for their progeny, or, in some cases, even gathering material for the construction of a nest.
In addition to those mentioned, a host of creatures is roused from a winter sleep by the warmth of spring. We have not space even to name them, but the countryside rambler will be continually meeting with them early in the season.
Chapter 4 - Wayside and Hedgerow
Wayside and hedgerow are now beginning to look freshly green again. The new growths of perennial herbs and the first leaves of numerous seedlings are bursting through the withered stems and leaves of last summer; and the brightness of the green is enhanced by contrast with the sombre background. Vivid tufts of green also appear on the brambles and shrubbage of wayside wastes, and the shrubs and creepers topping the hedgebanks are rapidly forming their new shoots.
Even in early spring we find that some of the wild flowers have already finished blooming. The ‘lambs’-tails’ of the hazel bushes are dead or dying, and rapidly falling to the ground; but the little budlike clusters of fruiting flowers (see Plate XLIII), although they bear only the withered remains of their crimson, pollen-catching filaments, will soon begin to swell as the nuts commence to develop within them. The white blossoms of the sloe or blackthorn are also fast disappearing, their white petals falling like a shower of snow on the ground beneath.
The tall elm and the evergreen yew, which often break the monotony of the bushy hedgebank, have both completed their flowering season. Winged fruits are already beginning to appear on the tips of the branches of the former; and the pollen-flowers of the yew are now quite dead.
Yet some of the flowers that commenced to bloom before the spring season opened are now to be seen in their greatest profusion. Shady banks are thickly spotted with the bright yellow flowers of the lesser celandine (Plate V) raised only slightly above the glossy leaves. Intimately mixed with these we often find the sweet violet, the primrose, the little white strawberry-leaved cinquefoil (Plate XLIII) so often mistaken for the wild strawberry, and, a little later, with the scentless dog-violet. This admixture of violet, yellow and white, with its background of various tints of green, not unfrequently further varied by the little purple, lipped flowers of the red dead-nettle (Plate XXXVIII), forms a very pleasing picture.
Some of the above flowers also adorn the weedy wayside, in company with the tiny white clusters of the shepherd’s purse (Plate V) and the small white stars of the chickweed, both of which are to be seen in bloom more or less all the year round.
Then, before April is over, new flowers appear while all the above are still in bloom. In the shade, at the foot of hedgebanks, the tall stalks of the garlic mustard or Jack-by-the-hedge (Plate V) ascend rapidly, with their clusters of little white, four-petalled flowers at the top; also the white umbels of the wild chervil with its beautiful, fernlike foliage; and the white dead-nettle (Plate XXXV) with close clusters of rather large lipped flowers in the axils of the upper leaves. And on the banks themselves there now appear the little blue flowers of the creeping ground-ivy (Plate VI), in clusters of about six in the axils of the rounded leaves; and, in damp places, the yellow flowers of the colt’s-foot (Plate VI), which look much like small dandelions, but they are supported on thicker stalks, and always bloom before the foliage appears.
New flowers are also to be seen by the wayside, including the mouse-ear chickweed (Plate VI) that may be known by its small downy leaves placed in pairs, and its forked clusters of little starlike flowers; the pretty dove’s-foot crane’s-bill (Plate XXII) —a species of wild geranium, the leaves of which are deeply cut into several wedge-shaped parts, and whose small purplish flowers are arranged in pairs; also, in very dry places, the rich purple flowers of the spring vetch, placed singly, without stalks, in the axils of the compound leaves. The last named belongs to the pea-flower order, and a glance at one of the little blooms will show that it is much like the garden sweet-pea in form.
Before the spring season is at an end, the number of wild flowers in bloom has so greatly increased that it would be impossible to deal with them here; and if the reader is desirous to identify all he meets with, it will be necessary to consult a rather big volume dealing with our flora only.
During the month of April the most hardy of our wild birds will have finished their nest-building, and already have laid their eggs; but May is the best month in which to study nests and eggs, this being the time when the largest number of species is engaged in raising their broods.
While gathering flowers in hedgerows one is occasionally startled by the sudden flutter of a bird that hastily emerges from a hole or from amongst thick shrubbage almost close by. When this occurs it is fairly certain that we have disturbed a bird that was sitting on its nest, and a careful search will generally reveal the nest with its eggs or young.
Some sitting birds are rather shy, and will fly from their nests when any one is still some feet distant; but others will remain at rest until almost touched. In fact a few are such close sitters that, if the exact position of the nest be previously known, they may be approached, cautiously, to within a foot or so, and be watched for some time without the bird showing any signs of fear. We have even gently stroked the head of a sitting bird without in any way interfering with its parental duties.
Since sitting birds are so reluctant to leave their eggs, wayfarers may pass many nests without knowing of their existence; and a countryside rambler who desires to make a study of our nests and eggs must adopt some means of discovering their whereabouts.
As a rule, nests are very artfully concealed from view, so that there is but little hope of finding them unless we have observed the occupants fly from them. The easiest way to discover them is to walk slowly along the hedgebank or wayside, gently tapping the bushes and herbage with a stick. But even then you will not always succeed in finding a nest in a place from which a bird has flown; and it is sometimes necessary, in order to be sure of the exact situation, to conceal yourself some little distance away, and watch for the bird to come back. The best way to find a nest in a thick bush is to look upwards through the latter towards the sky, for the nest will be more easily seen against a light background.
For the purpose of identifying the nests and eggs, full notes should be made of the position of each nest, the materials of which it is constructed, and the size, form, colour, markings (if any), and number of the eggs. Armed with such particulars, it is generally easy to obtain the names of the birds to which they belong with the aid of a good book dealing with birds and their nests, or by referring to the preserved specimens in a natural history museum. Whenever possible you should also learn all you can about the parent birds, and for this you will find field glasses exceedingly useful.
Several of our common birds build their nests in hedges, wayside banks, and bushy roadsides; and here are brief descriptions of the nests and eggs you are most likely to find:
Thrush.—The song-thrush generally builds in a bushy hedge, a thick holly-bush, ivy, or in the fork of a tree. The nest is made of thin twigs, grass and moss, and lined with mud or cow-dung with which is mingled some fragments of rotten wood. The eggs, four or five in number, are greenish blue, with small spots of very dark brown (Plate VI).
Blackbird.—The nesting-places of this bird are similar to those of the thrush. The nest is constructed with stems, grass, and roots, plastered with mud inside, and lined with very thin grass. The eggs are from four to six in number, of a light greenish-blue colour, mottled irregularly with light brown.
Hedge-sparrow.—This bird is not really a sparrow, and its correct name is hedge-accentor; yet it is nearly always known by the former appellation. It builds its nest in a thick hedge, often choosing a close-set, thorny bush, using grass, roots, and moss, and finishing with a smooth lining of horse-hair. The eggs are usually five in number, and are of a bright greenish-blue colour, with no markings of any kind.
Robin.—The nest of the robin is generally placed in a hole in a hedge or rough wall, a hollow tree-stump, or in a thick bush close to the ground. It is constructed of grass, moss, and dry leaves, and lined with horsehair, wool, or feathers. About six eggs are laid, of a light reddish colour, more or less clouded, and spotted with pale red.
Wren.—The common wren builds its nest in quite a variety of situations, among which may be mentioned holes in hedges, banks, walls, and trees; in ivy, thick bushes, or clumps of dense herbage; and close to the ground under brambles. The usual materials are moss, dead leaves, ferns, and dry grass, with a lining of fine moss, feathers, or hair. The nest is generally domed, with the entrance near the top. The eggs are white, with a few light red spots, and vary in number from four to eight.
Yellow bunting.—Although the yellow bunting or yellow-hammer generally builds in the furze bushes of heaths and moors, its nest may often be found amongst the thick herbage of hedgerows and wayside banks, or low in brambles or bushes at the top of a hedge. It is made of dry grass, roots and moss, lined with horsehair or fine grass, or both. The eggs are about five in number, of a very pale purplish colour, curiously veined and streaked with a dark reddish purple edged with greyish violet.
Chaffinch.—The nest of the chaffinch is a marvellously beautiful structure. It consists of lichens, moss, and fine grass thoroughly woven together with an admixture of cobwebs, and lined with hair, wool, and feathers; and is built in a shrub or tree, frequently in the fork of a branch. The eggs are of a light bluish colour, boldly blotched and spotted with purple-brown, and four or five in number.
Greenfinch.—Greenfinches generally build in a thick bush or small tree, or in the dense herbage on the top of a hedge. The nest is made with grass, roots, and moss, mixed with wool, and lined with horsehair and feathers. The eggs are about five in number, white, lightly speckled with reddish purple at the larger end.
Bullfinch.—The nest of the bullfinch is a very peculiar structure, consisting of a rough platform of woven twigs, with a depression in the middle formed of grass and roots and lined with feathers. It is usually built in an evergreen bush, such as yew or holly, or in a very thick hedge. The eggs are about five in number, greenish blue, with reddish brown blotches and dark purplish spots and streaks.
Another interesting feature of the hedgerow and the weedy wayside is the abundance of climbing plants which are ever struggling upwards to reach the free light and air. Some of these do not flower until late spring or early summer; but the best time to study their climbing habits is the period during which they are thrusting up their young shoots, for their growth is then very rapid, and we have the opportunity of seeing how young stems, at first erect and self-supporting, make their early attempts to secure a hold on their stronger comrades. This study, however, is of so much interest and importance that we must make it the subject of a separate chapter.
Trolling by the hedgerows and overgrown waysides one cannot but notice the tangled masses of vegetation in which the plants are so intermixed that it is often difficult to determine their respective stems, leaves, and flowers. Everywhere climbing plants abound, some clinging to their surroundings by hooks or bristles, some twining their stems round those of their companions like a corkscrew, some throwing out little tendrils that are always ready to grasp any stem within their reach, and others weaving their lengthening shoots between the confused tangles above them.
Whatever be the means by which these plants climb, the object is always the same, namely, to obtain the light and air necessary for the development of their flowers; and the result, produced later in the season, is a glorious display of flowery screens and festoons, and sprays of blossom dangling from the topmost branches of shrubs.
Some climbing plants, including many that grow in our hedgerows and wayside banks, appear, at first sight, to have no special means of support, and yet they successfully raise their summits, in spite of their very weak stems, to a height of several feet. How is it done?
Look at the common white bedstraw of our hedges (Plate VII). The base of its stem is thin and weak, and yet its upper blooms reach a height of four or five feet. It thrusts itself upwards, weaving its stem among the herbage or shrubbage above it, always keeping its uppermost leaves upright and closely packed together so that it can easily pass through small spaces; and then, one by one, it spreads its whorled clusters of leaves horizontally to prevent itself from slipping backwards. Another similar plant—the goosegrass—closely related to it, supports itself in the same way; but this one has the advantage of numerous little bristles, on leaves and stem, with their points directed backwards, so that they form tiny hooks by which the plant is securely suspended.
Most climbing plants, however, adopt a method of clinging that is obvious at a glance. Of these we will first note the twiners—those which coil their stems like a corkscrew round their chosen supports. They have always thin, weak stems, and yet, by means of their twining habit, they are capable of rising to considerable heights.
Each species of twiner has its own method of climbing, from which it never deviates. Some of them always turn to the right, like the hands of a clock, as do the hop, honeysuckle, and the climbing buckwheat; while the bindweeds invariably turn in an anti-clockwise direction (Plate VII). Nor is it possible to compel a twining plant to change its habit in this respect. You may wind any one of them the wrong way round a stick, binding it securely as you proceed, but the growing tip will immediately begin to obey the instinct of the plant. Further, these plants never select a very thick object on which to climb, as if they knew that the thinner the support the more rapid is the upward progress. In fact they are quite incapable of twining their stems round very thick supports. It is of no use, for instance, to attempt to train hops on stakes much over three inches in diameter, for they are unable to encircle them.
Again, the motto of the twining climber is evidently ‘Excelsior!’ for, on reaching a horizontal support, or one that makes only a small angle with the level, it will leave it at once, and search for an object that will lead it quickly above its surroundings.
As a rule the twining stems grow and turn very rapidly, and it is very interesting to make observations on this matter, as can easily be done by putting marks on the stakes of the climbers in the garden. The tip of the hop will make a complete revolution round its support in about two hours, during warm weather; and that of the convolvulus in an even shorter time.
In copses and hedgerows may often be seen remarkable deformities in the stems of trees, like the one shown on Plate VII; and the cause is generally very evident, for in most cases it will be found that the stem of the honeysuckle is encircling the deformed object. The honeysuckle stem does not increase in length in parts where it has become woody in structure. Thus, if it is wound round a growing object, the latter, not being able to force the gripping coils outward as it increases in thickness, is naturally strangled, frequently even to death.
On the other hand, we sometimes meet with twining stems on objects thicker than the tips of the stems could possibly embrace; hence it is clear that the coils of the twiners, in these cases, were able to yield to the internal pressure of the growing support they clasped.
Now what happens if the seed of a twining climber germinates in a spot where there is no support of any kind for the growing plant? At first the young plant will stand erect; for, at this stage, the base can hold up the small weight above it. But, in a short time, the top-weight has so increased that the stem bends over, arching more and more until the tip, turning round and round in its vain attempts to find something it can hold, at last comes to the ground again. A fresh start is now made—another attempt to reach a suitable prop, with the same useless gyrations, until it is again compelled to come to earth. So the instinctive struggles of the plant to raise itself continue in vain, with the result that it becomes a feeble and sickly being, often perishing without being able to produce its flowers and fruit.
Sometimes, however, a twining climber produces several stems, and these, finding no support at hand, seem to realise the fact that ‘union is strength,’ and so wind round one another, forming a rope or cable which is often rigid enough to support them until one or more of the revolving tips succeed in getting a hold (Plate VIII). Sometimes, too, a single winding stem, failing to find a stay, will twist itself into a spiral which, resting on the ground, serves to form a base to carry the revolving top as it searches for a suitable twig for its grip, just as a snake will lift itself on its coiled tail in order to elevate its head.
It is not often that a twining stem is in danger of slipping down on the object it grips with its numerous coils, but this is possible where the climber mounts a smooth, straight stem without branches. In order to prevent such slipping the twiner is sometimes provided with hooks or bristles to make its grip more secure. A remarkable instance is to be found in the hop, the stein of which is armed with little anvil-like hooks that cling to any object on which it climbs; and the hooks have such hard walls that they are not easily broken by the strain of any downward pull that may be exerted.
We have already hinted at the possibility of a twining plant failing to find anything on which to climb, and, in consequence, becoming stunted and sickly. To avoid such a calamity many climbers do not trust to one, or even to a few, clinging structures, but produce quite a large number of twining tendrils that are always ready to grip objects on all sides (Plate VIII).
Sometimes these tendrils are altered leaves or leaflets, as we find in peas and vetches; sometimes they are altered branches, as in the climbing corydalis of our thickets; or modified flower stalks, as in the passion flower; while in the clematis the office is performed by the leaf stalks.
The tendril-bearing plants thrust out their feelers in all directions, as yet keeping them straight, or nearly so, in order that they may extend them as far as possible into space; but as soon as a tendril touches a stem or twig, the stimulus of the contact causes it to bend towards the surface touched; and the bending continues, in the same direction, until the tendril has made several revolutions round its support. Often, then, the base of the tendril—the part that had not reached far enough to help in the encircling movement—will itself contract into a more or less regular coil, thus pulling the plant bearing it towards the newly-found support.
The rapidity with which a tendril responds to the stimulus caused by contact is truly marvellous. Often the resulting bending commences in less than a minute, and seldom is it delayed more than a few minutes. Also the short time required to complete the several coils of its grip is equally marvellous.
Many tendrils are not satisfied by simply extending themselves to find a stem or twig on which to coil, but will turn themselves round and round to explore thoroughly the whole neighbourhood within reach; and this movement is frequently so rapid that the revolving tip of a tendril describes its circle in a much shorter time than the minute hand of a clock. In fact, it is frequently possible to see it move.
Further, if a tendril fails in all its attempts to obtain a hold, it often becomes stunted and shrivelled; while, on the other hand, if it succeeds, it becomes thicker and stronger. Again, if a tendril which has recently coiled itself round a stem be gently removed from the latter, that tendril will gradually straighten itself again to make a search for another hold.
There is yet one other kind of clinging organ used by plants, namely, the climbing roots, of which we have an interesting example in the ivy (Plate VIII). Of course the ivy has the ordinary roots by which it sucks up food from the soil; but the climbing roots mentioned are little rootlike structures provided solely for clinging, and have no power to absorb any kind of nutriment from the object to which they hold. How effectually they perform their work is shown by the tenacious way in which they bind their parent plant to the bark of the oak, or to the surface of a stone wall.
Brambles and briars are not always classed with climbing plants, but nevertheless they do very frequently climb when the opportunity presents itself. They thrust their fast-growing suckers and branches between the twigs of neighbouring shrubs, and then hold on by means of the numerous prickles with which both stems and leaf-ribs are provided; and as the points of the prickles are generally turned downwards, they form admirable hooks for suspension (Plate VIII).
These prickles, by the way, are not needed solely for climbing purposes, but are also a valuable protection against the attacks of browsing animals. When brambles and briars grow on moorland or other open ground, where they have not the chance to climb, their weak stems bend to the ground and form a series of arches in all directions, thus securing the abundance of light and air necessary for their robust growth and the development of their flowers and fruit.
Chapter 6 - The Woods in Spring
We have already observed the opening buds at the commencement of the season, and we now pay a visit to the woods a little later, when the trees are clothed with their first leaves. The tints of the foliage are now exceedingly delicate, the green being usually of a very pale shade, and often decidedly yellowish. Many of the leaves, though almost fully grown, still retain evidences of the manner in which they were folded in the bud, and some are still clothed with the soft silky hairs that were so necessary to them in their early stages. But the outer wall of the epidermis has now thickened slightly, so that the leaves are no longer in danger of being dried and withered by sun and wind; hence they have all spread themselves horizontally in order better to catch the rays of the warm sun.
As we walk among the lower branches of the trees we cannot but notice how artfully the leaves have arranged themselves to secure the maximum of light, avoiding that overlapping which would result in the shadows of some falling on others. In many instances where the leaves are rather closely set they have placed themselves so neatly edge to edge that they remind us of mosaic work. Often we see a small leaf just filling in a space where one of the normal size would cause some overshadowing; and where the leaf-stalks are nearly all directed forwards, towards the tip of the twig, we now and again notice one bent backward in order that its blade may just fit into an otherwise vacant space. Even the twigs which bear the leaves frequently take an active part in this scheme to catch as much light as possible, for they assume a zigzag course as they grow, with a moderately sharp bend at the junction of each leaf, thus keeping the leaf-blades more effectually spread for light and air (Plate IX).
The best examples of such leaf-mosaics are naturally to be found in just those places where the demand for light is most pressing—in narrow, shady woodland paths where much of the light is shut off by the upper, overhanging branches of tall trees; or on young trees which are overshadowed by larger ones. Some remarkable examples may also be seen where ivy covers the bole of an old oak, or in shady spots where this creeper trails over the ground. Here may often be seen the projecting angles of leaves just fitting nicely into the spaces between the lobes of their neighbours. Where the shade is deep, much overlapping is seldom found.
Many woodland paths are still covered with the decaying leaves of the previous summer, and even these leaves are worthy of a little notice, apart from the fact that their decayed remains help to produce a very rich soil. The soft, cellular tissue of a leaf decays much more rapidly than the fibrous veins intersecting it; and at the present time we may see many old leaves in which the former has nearly or entirely disappeared while the latter are all intact. Such are called skeleton leaves, and they are interesting inasmuch as they often display the most delicate network of veins, the smallest of which are barely noticeable before decay sets in. The best examples of skeleton leaves are to be seen in wet places which are not much frequented (Plate IX).
Leaving the woodland path, and wandering among the taller forest trees, we may meet with hundreds of little seedling trees just peeping above the ground, often so thickly set that it is almost impossible to move without crushing some of them. But these seedlings, at present, bear not the slightest resemblance to their parent trees. They consist only of a little stem, with a tapering root below, and two small, smooth leaves and a tiny bud above. The two leaves are nothing like those of the parent tree. They were formed from two parts of the seed, and are known as seed-leaves. They originally contained a store of food material to support the young plant in its earlier stages; and after they rose above the soil they became green and were then able to manufacture a certain amount of material further to maintain the young plant. But these seed-leaves never live long. Other leaves arise from the little bud at the top-leaves which resemble those of the parent tree; and when these are large enough to manufacture the organic matter necessary for growth, the seed-leaves, having served their temporary purpose, wither and drop.
At first, then, it is not easy to identify the seedling trees; but as soon as the first foliage leaves appear the difficulty is removed. Of course it would be impossible for the numerous young trees to grow to any size, so thickly are they distributed; but they are exposed to so many dangers that but few survive the seedling stage.
A few of our woodland ferns remain green throughout the year, but before the spring is over numerous new fronds display their delicate green—the bracken in open spaces, and other species on the shady banks of tracks and streamlets. And note how these fronds unfold, for the method is the same in all ferns. At first they are closely coiled like the top of a bishop’s crosier, and often protected by a dense, shaggy covering of thin brown scales; then, as the fronds lengthen, the coil gradually unfurls, exposing the delicate green wings (Plate IX).
These early fronds are all produced from perennial stocks which may have existed for many years, but minute young ferns are to be seen at the same time. The latter, however, would not be recognised as ferns except by those who are acquainted with the life-history of these peculiar plants. They are not produced from seeds, like flowering plants and trees, but from minute spores which are liberated from little cases on the backs of the fronds, and carried as a fine dust by the breeze.
If a spore alights on a favourable spot, where there is sufficient warmth and moisture for its growth, it produces a little green, heart-shaped leaf or scale, with several minute rootlets passing from its under surface into the soil. This scale never grows large, but it bears little bodies which, when fertilised, give rise to the fern. Thus it will be seen that there are two distinct stages in the life-history of a fern.
As we pass beneath the overhanging branches of trees we observe a large number of caterpillars, of various forms, colours, and sizes, dangling at the ends of very fine silken threads. These are often so abundant in the spring that it is quite impossible to avoid them all, and we find ourselves soon encumbered with a number of them. Give one of the branches a sharp tap with a stick and many others fall from their resting-place, some reaching the ground, but always at the end of a newly-spun thread, and others only descending a few inches or feet. As soon as the threatened danger is over, they commence to return to their former places, and it is interesting to watch them climb the delicate thread, swinging the forepart of the body alternately to right and left as they grip afresh.
Millions of these caterpillars are devoured by birds, yet sufficient are often left to completely denude the trees on which they live. Oak trees in particular are seriously attacked by them, and it is not at all uncommon to see oaks that were densely covered with new foliage only a week or two since, now as bare as in the depths of winter. But the oak is a sturdy tree, and capable of withstanding attacks that would seriously injure or even kill other species; and in a few weeks, when the caterpillars have all changed to chrysalides or moths, we see a second crop of leaves making their appearance.
Sometimes it happens that most of the early foliage of an oak is devoured by these pests, but here and there some few twigs have escaped their ravages. Then, when the second crop of leaves appears, the effect is very peculiar; for the early leaves which were spared have now assumed the darker green summer tint that contrasts strangely with the pale green of the new leaves.
Although the caterpillars referred to are so destructive, yet they are really interesting creatures, and a little time may well be spent in watching their forms and habits. Some have sixteen walking appendages—six true legs just behind the head, and five pairs of soft legs, bearing little hooks, farther back—and these creep along with a wavelike movement.
Others have only two pairs of the soft legs or claspers, at the hindmost extremity of the body, and so they are compelled to progress by a series of strides, at each of which the body is drawn into a loop. They are commonly named the ‘loopers.’
Types of Caterpillars. The two above are loopers.
Many of the loopers afford remarkable examples of protective resemblance. They are coloured with tints which closely match those of young twigs—various shades of green, grey, brown, etc. — and often bear marks and irregularities of surface resembling the variegations and notches of stems. They also have the habit of fixing themselves only by their claspers, when at rest, and of extending their bodies so that they are quite straight and form an angle with the stem corresponding with that of a young twig or leaf-stalk. In this position they will remain perfectly still for hours together; and their resemblance to the twigs of the trees on which they live is so true that you cannot always distinguish the former from the latter without a very close examination or a touch. Of course this resemblance to their surroundings is a great protection from birds and other insectivorous creatures.
Some of the flowers of shady banks also flourish in woodland, especially among bushes and underwood. Here we find violets and primroses mingled with the bright yellow daffodil and the graceful wood-anemone or wind-flower. A little later, just when the daffodils are beginning to form their fruits, the wild hyacinth or bluebell appears, and the less conspicuous greenish flowers of the wood-spurge and the mercury (Plate X).
Later still, in May, we find the pretty yellow wood-pimpernel, the white wood-sorrel, and the wild strawberry (Plate XI). Of these the wood-sorrel is particularly interesting on account of the peculiar movements of its leaves. Each leaf is made up of three distinct, heart-shaped leaflets. As long as the plant is sheltered from sun and wind the leaflets are all spread horizontally; but when exposed to direct sunshine or a dry wind, the leaflets fold themselves closely to avoid unnecessary exposure, each one folding itself along the midrib like a sheet of paper, bringing together the two halves of the under surface, where are situated the little holes (stomata) through which moisture is chiefly lost.
In damp places, where the alder, poplars, and willows thrive best, we may meet with the ramsons, easily known by its umbels of white, starlike flowers, and its strong odour of garlic (Plate XI). Also quite a number of species of rushes and sedges, the former usually with cylindrical stems and clusters of small brown flowers; and the latter with grass-like leaves, and green flowers in close spikes. The flowers of rushes are perfect, each one having both stamens and seed-case or ovary; while in the sedges there are two distinct kinds of flowers, one kind bearing the stamens only, and the other the ovaries.
The most conspicuous of the woodland grasses, at this season, is the melic (Plate XI); in fact it is probably the only one to be seen in flower. It is really a beautiful grass, growing to a height of from one to two feet, with very slender stems and long, narrow leaves. In most grasses the little flowers are grouped together in spikelets, but in the wood-melic the blooms are larger than usual, and arranged singly.
During the spring season we have the opportunity of seeing many of our forest trees in flower; yet it is strange that so few countryside ramblers are acquainted with most of their blossoms. This is probably due to the fact that many town-dwellers do not resort to the country much until the summer, and partly because a number of the tree-blooms are not very conspicuous.
At the commencement of spring the flowers of the yew, elm, hazel, and sloe are practically over, but in April the ash twigs bear their dense clusters of flowers, before the leaves appear; the birch catkins have assumed their full size, the larger, drooping ones shedding their abundant pollen; and the beech, oak, and hornbeam blossoms are mingled with their early leaves (Plates I, XI, and XII). But the most conspicuous tree-blossom of this month is undoubtedly that of the great sallow. As in all the willows and poplars (the great sallow is really a species of willow) the pollen-bearing flowers and the fruiting flowers are on separate trees, and it is the former, in the case of the great sallow, that attract most attention, for the catkins are large, and of a bright golden yellow when the pollen-cases open. This is the bloom so commonly used for church decoration on Palm Sunday (Plate XII).
The flowers of many of our forest trees have their pollen scattered only by the wind; and, not requiring the aid of insects for this important work, they assume no attractive form or colour, and produce no nectar. It is otherwise, however, with sallows and willows. They need the aid of insects in the distribution of their pollen, so they bear rather conspicuous clusters of flowers, the more easily noticed because they usually appear before the foliage, and these flowers yield liberal supplies of nectar to entice their winged helpers. If you stand under a great sallow tree on a bright day in March or April, you will hear the confused hum and buzz of thousands of tiny wings; and, looking upward, you see crowds of insects—flies, bees, butterflies, etc.—hustling one another in their rush for sweets.
In the following month (May) other species of willow are in bloom; the maple and sycamore display their loose clusters of greenish flowers, the former erect, and the latter drooping; the sweet chestnut is decorated with its thousands of slender catkins, usually about six inches long; the wild cherry and the crab-apple are both crowded with lovely white blossoms, the latter often assuming a pinkish tint.
It is impossible for us to deal further with the attractions of the woods at this season; but we may just briefly mention a few of the birds that are most likely to fly across our path.
The interesting tits may be seen climbing over the branches of trees, often back downwards, searching for insects. Two of these—the great tit and the blue tit—together with the nuthatch, the woodpecker and tree-creeper, build their nests in holes in trees, and may be seen busily popping in and out as they feed their young. The nests are often in such small, dark holes that it is impossible to reach or see them.
Where you hear the familiar song of the ring-dove you may often be successful in finding its nest—a mere platform of twigs, with two white, glossy eggs lying on, not in, it. It seems surprising that the eggs do not roll off when the slender branches bearing the nest sway with the wind.
On the ground you may meet with the nest of the pheasant, a mere hollow in the soil, in which are laid about a dozen olive-brown eggs. The bird sits so closely on the nest, and is so difficult to distinguish on account of her inconspicuous dusky tints, that one might almost tread on the nest before she moves. The nest of the woodcock is similar, but is usually concealed among dead ferns or fallen leaves, and the eggs, which are very pale yellow, spotted and blotched at the larger end with grey and brown, number only four.
Chapter 7 - Fields and Pastures
We do not meet with a great variety of spring flowers in well-kept meadows; but rough pastures and cultivated fields provide a number of interesting species.
During March hardly any flowers are to be seen except those which bloom more or less throughout the year and the loose clusters of the annual meadow grass. But in the following month several new flowers appear, including the familiar daisies and dandelions. These two flowers belong to the group known as ‘composites,’ each so-called flower being really a mass of small blooms densely packed on a common receptacle. In the daisy there are a number of minute perfect flowers forming a disc or centre, round which are the spreading rays of white imperfect blooms; but in the dandelion there is no division into disc and rays, all the flowers of the cluster being similar.
These two species are so common that they attract but little attention, yet only those who have taken the trouble to examine the individual florets with a magnifying lens can have any idea of their wonderful structure. They are further interesting on account of their regular periods of opening and closing—of awakening and going to sleep. Both require the aid of insects to transfer their pollen from flower to flower; and they open in the morning, when the particular insects they require are on the wing, closing again later in the day to prevent loss of pollen when those insects are also at rest.
In damp meadows we may meet with the butter-bur (Plate XII), another composite flower, but very different in general appearance. Its flower-stalk is very thick, with many heads of dull purple flowers; and the plant is remarkable for the fact that the leaves do not appear until the flowers are nearly over. Another well-known grass—the foxtail—is also in bloom at this time (Plate XIII).
During May immense changes take place in the general appearance of meadows and pastures. The grass is becoming rapidly taller, completely hiding the withered blades of the previous summer, and wild flowers are thrusting their heads above it in great abundance. Each meadow seems to have its own favourite blossom; and, as we stand on some vantage ground from which we can cast an eye over hill and dale, we see one meadow yellow with the golden buttercups or cowslips, another white with the daisy or the creeping clover, and a third bright red with the sorrel. Then, approaching each of these in turn, we find the general colour, as viewed from a distance, is relieved by dots and patches of other tints—here patches of the purple clover, there the pale lilac of the cuckoo-flower, and sometimes mingled with these the purple spikes of the early and the green-winged orchids (Plate XIII).
Most of the grasses do not flower till the haying time, but a few species are in bloom this month, one of which—the sweet vernal grass—we must note, because this is the grass chiefly concerned in imparting the delicious odour to new-mown hay (Plate XIII).
The term ‘buttercup’ is applied, and correctly so, to several different species of flowers. Three or four of these are quite common in meadows and pastures, and yet many countryside ramblers cannot distinguish between them. The first two to flower are the bulbous buttercup, best distinguished by the swollen, bulblike root, but also by the position of the sepals of the flower, which always turn down against the stalk as soon as the flower opens; and the small-flowered buttercup, which is not nearly so common. Then, about the end of spring, we get the tall meadow buttercup and the creeping buttercup. The former of these is much like the bulbous species, but is much taller, as a rule, and its sepals always remain extended when the flower is open; the latter may easily be known by its running stems, which form new roots and new plants as they creep along the ground.
Cultivated fields yield a much greater variety of flowers than grass land, and before the spring is over the number of even common species in bloom is so large that we could not find space to describe them all. Nevertheless, every lover of Nature will find a keen delight in examining these flowers, some of which, though they may be small, are remarkably beautiful, particularly the pink crane’s-bills, the bright-blue speedwells, and the scarlet pimpernel (Plates XIV, XX, and XXII).
As we wander through the grass in spring we often disturb the hen skylark as she sits on her nest. Searching the spot from which she rose we may find the nest, in spite of the fact that it is often artfully concealed beneath an arching tuft of grass. This nest is built in a slight hollow in the ground, and is formed of moss and grass, with a lining of hair and fine fibres. The eggs are of a dull pale green or yellowish brown, with purplish markings and reddish-brown spots, and are four or five in number.
The tree pipit or tree lark and the meadow pipit or titlark also build on the ground in meadows and pastures. The nest of the former is made of fine grass and roots, often with a little moss, and lined with hair. It is always situated near a hedge or tree on which the male bird spends much of his time. The eggs are about five in number, and are of a very pale yellowish or purplish colour, spotted and clouded nearly all over with shades of greyish brown and purple; but the ground colour and markings are both so variable that it is often difficult to identify the eggs without seeing the bird. The tree pipit is one of our summer visitors. It arrives here in April, and remains with us until September or October.
The meadow pipit is found more in rough pastures than in meadows, and its nest is often concealed under a tuft of heather or rough herbage. The eggs, about five in number, are very variable in colour, but are generally of a brownish white, mottled all over with a darker greyish brown.
Still another nest is commonly to be found on the ground in pastures—that of the chiff-chaff, which generally builds on the weedy borders of fields or under the shelter of the hedges. In this case the nest is made of dead leaves, grass and moss, and lined with feathers; and it is domed, so that the opening is at the side.
We have already referred to the hibernating butterflies which leave their winter quarters permanently as soon as the days become bright and warm. These may be seen in abundance in fields and pastures, more especially round the flowery borders. In addition, some of the early species which have existed through the winter, either in the caterpillar or the chrysalis state, are now on the wing.
In April the white butterflies—the large white, the small white, and the green-veined white, all of which are responsible for considerable havoc in our vegetable gardens—appear almost everywhere; and the beautiful orange-tip butterfly, the female of which, by the way, has no orange patch on its forewings, is common in many places where the cuckoo-flower abounds, this being the food-plant of its grubs (Plate XIV).
Other species are added to these in May, when we may see the beautiful little copper butterfly, the common blue (the female of which is brown) and the small heath, all flitting merrily among the meadow grasses and flowers. Also two of the ‘skipper’ butterflies—the large skipper and the dingy skipper—belonging to a group so named because they never take long flights, but skip, as it were, from flower to flower (Plate XIV).
Part II: Summer
Chapter 1 - The Woods in Summer
Now comes the summer—the season in which both animal and plant life are at the highest flow. At its opening the trees are all in their densest foliage; wild flowers abound everywhere, more species being in bloom than at any other time; such multitudes of young birds have quitted their nests that the air is full of their chirpings, twitterings, and cawings; our wild quadrupeds have multiplied to such an extent that we are continually meeting with them or witnessing the results of their ravages; the air is so full of the hum, buzz, and flutter of myriads of insects we sometimes feel rather unkindly disposed to them; frogs and toads, which have been living their earlier days in ponds, now suddenly overrun moist meadows in such vast multitudes that they have led to the superstition that they fall to earth with the rain. While everywhere the eye and ear are impressed with the fullness of life, the air is filled with the sweet odours of a thousand blooms.
But as the beginning of summer betokens the heyday of life, so the more advanced portion of the season brings with it the first touch of regret; for the signs of the coming fall begin to appear. The tall, waving grass, with its accompaniment of varied blossoms, has been cut close to the ground; and the ripening corn, with its glorious scarlet poppies, yellow marigolds, white mayweeds, and bluebottles, is nearly ready for the mowers. Thus we are reminded that the autumn, with its rapid decline of life, is near; and that the winter will soon be approaching.
But let us away to the shady woods while the hot sun is yet high in the heavens, and see what progress the trees have made since we saw them in the spring.
The forest trees are now in full foliage, and the tints of the leaves are darker than in the spring; for, under the influence of the stronger light, more of the green colouring matter has been formed; and even now we can see the buds, which are to lie dormant all through the next winter, in the axils of the leaves and at the tips of the twigs.
There is a great difference in the density of the foliage of different trees. Some cast such heavy shadows that hardly anything can grow beneath them; thus, in beech woods and pine woods the ground is quite bare except for its carpet of dead leaves or ‘needles.’ Others, like the birch and the ash, have a light, airy foliage that permits a considerable amount of direct sunlight to filter through.
Some trees which were in bloom early in the spring have already ripened and shed their fruits. This is the case with the elm and some of the poplars and willows. But many trees, including a few which bloom very early, form their fruits much more slowly, and do not ripen them till autumn. In fact, this is the case with the majority of the forest trees, and consequently this is a good time to watch the gradual swelling of the fruits while they are still green.
Yet the flowering of the trees is not all over, for at the commencement of the summer may be seen the large clusters of white elder blossom; the yellowish-green flowers of the lime, each cluster of which is attached to a leafy ‘bract’ that will remain to serve as a sail to aid in the scattering of the future seeds; also the two distinct kinds of flowers on the pines (Plate XV).
The flowering lime is one of the midsummer glories that should not be missed. Resting in the grateful shade of a well-grown lime tree on a hot summer’s day one finds the air charged with the delicious perfume of its inconspicuous flowers, while the abundant nectar provided by the blossoms seems to induce the companionship of all the bees and butterflies in the neighbourhood.
There are two distinct kinds of flowers on the pine trees. The fruiting flowers, which afterwards develop into woody cones, are in compact, almost globular masses, and, although now green, show a considerable resemblance to the future fruits. The pollen-bearing flowers are more conspicuous, for they are arranged in spikes at the tips of the twigs, and their pale-yellow pollen contrasts strongly with the dark-green leaves.
Another interesting feature of the woodland, especially underwood and thicket, in summer, is the abundance of flowering climbers, including the honeysuckle, bryony, woody nightshade, and the convolvulus or greater bindweed (Plate XVII). These climbers, however, are perhaps more at home in the hedgerow, and will be referred to in the next chapter. Then, as regards the woodland flowers of the low-growing herbs, these are so numerous that we cannot possibly deal with even all the common ones, but must necessarily confine our attention to a few species which are to be found in almost every wood.
Many of the spring flowers still continue to bloom. In early summer we still find the dog-violet, wood-sorrel, wild strawberry, wood-pimpernel, and wood-spurge; mingled with new species that have but recently opened.
Of the latter, few are more striking than the fox-glove (Plate XV), the tall spikes of which of ten reach a height of four feet. The large flowers, shaped like a finger-stall, are usually purple without, and beautifully blotched and spotted within. Their pollen is distributed by large bees which enter the flowers for nectar; but while the insects are securing the sweets their hairy bodies brush off pollen which is afterwards carried to other blooms. The insides of the flowers are clothed with hairs at the mouth; and these hairs not only prevent pollen from falling out and being wasted, but also tend to prevent the entry of smaller insects which would remove nectar without in any way assisting in the fertilization of the flowers. The drooping of the flowers also prevents pollen from being washed out by rain.
Although not so striking as the majestic fox-glove, the bugle makes a good show in the clearings of woods and coppices, where large patches of ground are often completely covered with its smooth leaves and rich blue flowers. The latter are lipped, like the flowers of dead-nettles; and the colour effect is increased by the purple tint of the leaves on the upper part of each spike (Plate XV).
In similar situations we may find immense clusters of the yellow cow-wheat, the flowers of which are in pairs and all turned one way. If you dig up one of these plants very carefully, together with the grass or other herbs close to it, and gently remove the soil without disturbing the roots, you will find that a root or sucker of the cow-wheat is attached to the root of one of its neighbours; for the cow-wheat is a partial parasite which, instead of manufacturing all the material it requires in its own leaves, robs one of its neighbours of ready-made organic matter. Its own leaves do not appear to be large enough to supply its wants, so that it becomes necessary for it to steal in order to thrive.
In woodland paths we are sure to meet with the tormentil, easily known by its silky leaves, cut into three or five distinct leaflets, and its bright yellow four-petalled flowers, and also the wood-sage, whose inconspicuous, pale yellow flowers are very attractive to bees and other insects (Plate XVI).
More in the shade, among the trees, two other plants with inconspicuous flowers will be found—the wood-sanicle (Plate XVI), bearing several rounded heads of small pinkish blooms; and the twayblade, a species of orchis with only two oval leaves and a tall spike of green flowers.
As the summer advances there is a great increase in the number of composite flowers; these include several hawkweeds, some of which are very common in woods; in damp places several species of sedges are sure to be seen.
As a rule we expect to meet with butterflies principally in meadows and round the flowery borders of fields, but there are several summer species which fly almost exclusively in woods and coppices. The favourite haunts of butterflies are always those places in which the food-plants of their caterpillars grow, for the females invariably deposit their eggs on, or close to, the food of their offspring; and the food-plants of the species to which we refer are all woodland trees, shrubs, or herbs.
These woodland butterflies belong principally to two distinct groups—the ‘fritillaries’ and the ‘hair-streaks.’ The former (Plate XVII) are all very similar in general appearance, their wings being of a rich yellowish-brown colour above, with darker markings; and the under side is decorated with patches of bright, metallic silver, or with pearly white. Some of them are large butterflies, very powerful on the wing, and they frequently fly high over the tops of trees; but the females, especially, are often to be seen close to the ground, for most of the fritillaries lay their eggs on the leaves of violets.
The hairstreaks are small butterflies, very variously coloured, but easily distinguished from others by thin, white or pale streaks running across the wings on the under side. Their caterpillars feed on the leaves of woodland trees and shrubs.
Hedgerows and wayside banks are now so full of interest that one could often spend hours in the investigation of a hundred yards or so, with a chance of finding something new at almost every step. The herbs have now reached their full size, and a very large number of them are in flower—tiny plants only an inch or two in height to tall herbs two or three feet high, with bold masses of bloom.
The climbers, for the time being, appear to be almost satisfied with their efforts to outreach their neighbours, and are now bringing forth their blossoms in abundance, some decorating the stems round which they have twined, and others bearing dangling clusters at their summits, or forming flowery festoons as their stems reach from tip to tip of the hedgerow shrubs.
Here is the favourite honeysuckle, its twining stems, always turning to the right as they climb, reaching the very tips of the hedgerow shrubs, where they produce dangling clusters of sweet-scented flowers which yield abundant nectar to the useful bees by day and to moths by night. If you examine these flowers you will sometimes find the tubes of the lipped corollas almost half filled with the sweet fluid which is secreted to encourage the insects that are so necessary to transfer the pollen from the projecting anthers of one flower to the equally prominent stigma of another.
Hard by we find the greater bindweed (Plate XVII), the twining stems of which invariably turn to the left. Its very large, bell-shaped flowers are pure white, with a green, heart-shaped hood at the base. They are always produced singly, and are very conspicuous against the broad, triangular green leaves. Although this flower provides nectar, it emits no perfume to attract insects. In fact it does not appear to be visited much by insect life in the daytime, and it is probable that fertilization is affected chiefly during the night, at which time the white corolla would attract nocturnal insects from a considerable distance.
The woody nightshade (Plate XVII) is another very common hedgerow climber. This plant is often wrongly named the deadly nightshade, but the latter is of a very different nature. It is not a climber, but an erect, bushy herb, with purplish, bell-shaped flowers about an inch long. The woody nightshade, on the other hand, is a climber, and its flowers are not campanulate. Although usually classed as a twiner, it supports itself among hedgerow shrubs more by interlacing its branches than by twining. Its leaves are heart-shaped, and often have two small lobes at the base. The blue flower at once reminds one of the flower of the potato plant, for its five yellow anthers form a cone above the central seed-case, as in the latter. In fact the woody nightshade (also known as the bitter-sweet) is a very near relative of the potato.
In the southern counties the wild clematis or traveller’s-joy is one of the most striking of the hedge-climbers. Its perennial stem is woody, and sometimes three inches in thickness, but the young branches are slender, and are supported by the leaf-stalks which twist themselves round the branches of hedgerow shrubs. Its loose clusters of flowers, though green, and therefore not conspicuous, are yet pretty; but the climber is rendered much more striking in autumn and winter by its white clusters of feathered fruits which have earned for the plant the name of ‘old man’s beard.’
Much more common is the black bryony (Plate XVIII) —a Climber that owes its elegance more to its glossy, heart-shaped leaves than to its flowers, which are of a yellowish-green colour. This plant twines its stems on shrubs, and travels considerable distances over the tops of clipped hedges. It has two kinds of flowers—the male or pollen-bearing flowers, in long, slender racemes; and the fruiting flowers in much shorter clusters. It commences to flower before summer begins, and long before the end of this season it is laden with numerous berries, which turn scarlet when ripe.
The white bryony and the hop are two other common climbers which have imperfect flowers, but in both of these the male and the fruiting flowers are always on separate plants. The former clings by means of numerous tendrils. Its male flowers are pale yellow, and about half an inch in diameter; while the fruiting or female flowers are much smaller. The hop clings to surrounding shrubs by twining its stems, always to the right, like the honeysuckle. The flowers of the male plant (Plate XVIII) are of a yellowish green, arranged in loose clusters, while those of the female are in rather large globular heads.
Associated with the climbers above mentioned we are sure to see the beautiful pink or white flowers of the favourite dog-rose; and sometimes also its very near relative the sweet-briar (Plate XVIII), with rather smaller pink flowers, and foliage which emits an aromatic odour, especially when rubbed. The scent proceeds from numerous little glands which are situated on the under sides and edges of the leaves. These two roses are not usually classed as climbers, and yet they are, for they push their slender stems between the branches of hedgerow shrubs, and then support themselves by means of their numerous hooked prickles.
Many of the lower hedgerow herbs are quite as interesting as the climbers, but we can refer only to a few of the more prominent of them. Let us first look at the two campions—the red or day campion and the white or evening campion (Plates XVIII and XIX). These two plants are very similar in their general form, but, as the names imply, one has red and the other white flowers. They also agree in that the flowers bearing the ovaries or seed-vessels and those producing the pollen are on separate plants, so that pollen has to be transferred from one plant to another before fertilization can take place. The red campion flowers always open in the morning, and the pollen is carried from their stamens by day-flying insects; but the white campion always opens in the evening, and is pollinated by moths, which are on the wing at night. The flowers of the latter, being pure white, are easily seen at dusk, and they encourage moths by emitting a fragrant odour in the evening, and by providing nectar.
Nearly every hedgerow has its tangled masses of goosegrass or cleavers, the long weak stems of which, as well as the small, whorled leaves, are covered with hooked bristles to give support. At the tips of the stems are loose clusters of tiny greenish-white flowers, which are followed by little prickly fruits. Lower in the hedge you will probably find the avens (Plate XIX), with its yellow flowers placed singly on long stalks. Each flower produces a cluster of little fruits that terminate in a long slender hooked bristle, and both these and the fruits of the goosegrass cling so tenaciously that you will probably find them attached to your garments after you have been brushing by a hedge or walking by a weedy wayside.
We have space to refer to only two other prominent hedgerow flowers—the handsome yellow toadflax (Plate XX), remarkable for its lovely terminal cluster of flowers that remind one of the familiar snapdragon of our gardens; and the woundwort, with whorls of pretty, variegated, reddish-purple flowers, which protects itself from marauders by emitting a very disagreeable, putrid odour.
Passing a bank or hedge any time during the summer you see, here and there, a hole through which wasps are hurriedly passing in and out. This hole is the entrance to the nest of a colony of wasps, often numbering many hundreds. You may stand quite close to watch their movements without any danger of being stung, provided you do not interfere with their work or their home. Those entering the nest are often laden with food for the grubs within, or with some chewed wood, worked into a pulp, for the repair or enlargement of the nest. Those leaving are usually without burdens; but sometimes you may see them bringing out little lumps of soil which have to be removed to enlarge the size of the cavity as the colony increases; and occasionally one laden with a deceased member of the community, for they never allow their dead to remain in the home.
The nest itself is a wonderful structure, and well worth a close examination. To secure a complete nest it is best to destroy the insects, and that can be done easily by thrusting a suitable poison into the hole. Country chemists stock a ‘wasp destroyer,’ which is generally crushed or powdered potassium cyanide. Insert a dram or two of this substance through the entrance, and you will notice that while wasps are continually returning, none come out again. Allow an hour or two for the return of all the labourers, and then you may proceed to carefully remove the soil till the nest is completely exposed. It is necessary to await the return of all the wasps that were outside, otherwise the home-comers will attack you as you are busy with the excavation.
You will find that the nest (Plate XIX) is composed of a delicate grey paper, globular in form, and suspended from root-fibres that were exposed at the top of the cavity. Gently tear away the papery covering at one side, and you expose a home which may have several storeys, each storey consisting of a large number of inverted hexagonal cells. Some of the cells are still unfinished; some contain only a tiny egg; and others shelter white, legless grubs. A number of them are closed with a thin, white, papery membrane, and these contain fully-grown grubs which are gradually changing to perfect wasps. At the bottom of the cavity are a large number of dead wasps, including, perhaps, several females or queens whose duty is the laying of eggs.
It is remarkable that the poison which so quickly kills the winged insects acts comparatively slowly on the grubs, so that after the nest has been removed from its cavity all or most of the grubs are still alive; and if you transfer the nest to some sheltered spot where it can be observed conveniently, you will find, in the course of a few days, that some of the more advanced occupants have already developed into winged insects. A little later others will rapidly appear, and in turn the perfect insects take upon themselves the work of feeding the grubs and repairing the nest, so that the latter soon becomes once more a centre of life and activity.
The wasps’ nest shown in Plate XX was removed from a hedge-bank, and placed in a glass-fronted box, while still small. This nest was afterwards considerably enlarged, and eventually fastened to the sides and glass front of the box.
We have already mentioned the pretty lizards and blind-worms that inhabit sunny banks. These, of course, are to be seen all through the summer months, but now their haunts are enlivened by the presence of numerous young ones. Those of the common lizard are described on page 86. The young of the blind-worm are of a yellowish white above, and black beneath. When brought forth they are nearly two inches long.
Chapter 3 - Waysides and Wastes
Many of our country roads have no hedges or banks, but are bordered by weedy strips of ground with, here and there, patches of waste land. Such roads are frequently separated from the adjacent wastes by a small ditch which is generally quite dry during the greater part of the summer, and overgrown with tall grasses and various kinds of coarse vegetation.
A number of wild flowers are particularly partial to such situations, including some which apparently delight in dry stony places with full exposure to the sun’s rays; and so varied are the plant growths on these weedy roadsides that one may count scores of species without searching more than a few yards.
Here, quite within the range of busy traffic, and often smothered with dust in dry weather, we see the bright yellow flowers of the silverweed (Plate XX), so called on account of the white silky down which covers the under sides of its pretty leaves. In company with this plant we generally find chickweeds—the common chickweed and the hairy mouse-ear chickweed (Plate VI), both with small, white, starry flowers—but where the silverweed is well established other plants are usually crowded out, for the leaves of the latter closely cover the soil, and the plants spread rapidly by means of their creeping runners which send down roots and produce new growths above.
Here, too, we find the scarlet pimpernel (Plate XX), and the broad-leaved and narrow-leaved plantains. The former is of very different appearance and habit to the latter, yet the fruits of both are remarkable for the manner in which they open. Most fruits which split when ripe open by longitudinal slits, but those of the plants just named split transversely round the middle, so that the top falls off as a little cap. The fruits of the plantains are very small, but the feature we refer to is easily seen with a lens. If the fruits are ripe a very little pressure will cause the cap to fly off.
Taking a general view of the summer wayside flowers one is struck by the abundance of composite species—those in which a number of little stalkless florets are crowded together on a common receptacle. The commonest of these to be seen at the present time include the yellow hawkweeds, the sow-thistle, various species of prickly or true thistles (Plate XXI), the ragwort, chamomile (Plate XXII), mayweeds and knapweeds (Plate XXI); some of these have two distinct sets of florets forming a central disc and surrounding rays, like the common daisy, while others have only one kind, like the dandelion.
Where the ragwort (Plate XXI) and the groundsel abound one is almost sure to see beautiful ‘scarlet butterflies’ taking low, short flights in the sunshine. These insects are not really butterflies, but are commonly regarded as such because they fly in the daytime. They are moths, called cinnabar moths. They may be approached quite closely when at rest, and then we see that the fore wings are black, with a scarlet bar and two spots of the same colour, while the hind wings are completely scarlet.
Towards the end of spring you may have noticed numbers of conspicuous caterpillars on the two plants referred to—caterpillars with bright-orange bodies boldly ringed with black. These are the grubs which change into cinnabar moths after a short period of rest in the chrysalis state.
We have so many insect-eating birds one may well be surprised that such conspicuous creatures as the cinnabar moths and their caterpillars are not summarily captured and devoured; but the very fact that they can display themselves with impunity is in itself a proof that they must have some means of defence. The truth is they have a very nasty taste, and that of the caterpillar appears to be more objectionable than the taste of the moth. An inexperienced young bird may once seize a caterpillar; but, if so, it will probably spend the remainder of the day in wiping its beak and in other ways endeavouring to get rid of the objectionable flavour; and certainly it will never touch an orange and black grub again. Moreover, the unfortunate experience will probably cause the bird to regard all brightly-coloured insects with suspicion.
Sometimes you will see the leaf of a thistle curled or bent and its edges bound together by means of silken threads so as to form a snug little tent, or two or three leaves drawn together for the same purpose and held in the same way. Open this shelter and you will probably find within a caterpillar which is black above and red beneath, with yellow longitudinal stripes. This is the caterpillar of one of our most beautiful butterflies —the painted lady; and if you would like to learn its future history, through the remainder of its growing stage, its quiescent state as a gold-spotted chrysalis, and finally its emergence as a painted lady, take it home, and give it a fresh thistle leaf every day, housing it in a ventilated box from which it cannot escape.
Wild geraniums are well represented on weedy waysides, and three or four species may often be found within a few yards of each other. They vary somewhat in flowers and foliage. The former are always some shade of purple, and the latter more or less deeply cut; but all may be recognised by their fruits, which consist of five parts, united to a central axis in the form of a long beak. It is on account of this latter feature that the wild geraniums are often called cranes’-bills (Plates XIV and XXII).
You will also see several representatives of the group known as the umbel-bearing plants—plants whose flowers are on stalks which all radiate from one point on the main flower-stem, and are so arranged that they form a level or slightly rounded cluster. The flowers of this group are generally white, greenish, or pale pink, and are never large. They include the fool’s-parsley, cow-parsnip or hogweed (Plate XXII), wild carrot (Plate XXIII), rough chervil, hedge parsley, and several others. The poisonous hemlock, also a member of this group, gives off a foetid odour when crushed or bruised, and may be known by the purplish spots on its smooth stein.
A little farther removed from the stony line of traffic, where the soil is deeper and richer, and especially along the banks of wayside ditches, there springs a luxuriant growth of tall, coarse herbage. Here we find the goosefoot (Plate XXIII), with its dense clusters of small green flowers; some species of docks, bearing green flowers which often turn red, and which become sharply triangular as the fruits ripen; large patches of stinging nettle; and, especially in the ditches, a large number of grasses, some growing four or five feet high; also tufts of rushes and sedges.
Cattle are often allowed to graze by the wayside and on waste ground beside the roads; and in many places numerous rabbits feed on the same ground. In such spots it is interesting to note that while certain plants are cropped close, others remain untouched, and stand out in bold relief against the remains of the former.
It is evident, therefore, that some plants are protected against the ravages of herbivorous creatures. The hemlock and some others are avoided on account of their poisonous nature, and also because of their nauseous taste or odour. The woundwort, though hardly to be described as a poisonous herb, is protected similarly by a putrid odour; and bracken and other ferns, the broad-leaved plantain, horsetails, rushes, and many other plants are neglected because of their objectionable taste, or on account of the large amount of hard and indigestible tissue they contain.
Roadside brambles and briars are protected by their sharp prickles, the hawthorn and sloe by their thorns, and thistles by the stiff spines projecting from the margins of their leaves.
Even some of the grasses remain untouched by grazing animals; and as you look over the ground where the latter have been feeding, you will notice large tufts of grass which were refused because of the stiffness and roughness of their blades and stems.
Again, not a few plants protect themselves by means of a covering of hairs, sometimes stiff and bristly, but often of a soft silky or woolly nature, and yet capable of causing much irritation to the mouths and throats of animals. A covering of hairs, whether bristly or soft, also protects plants from slugs and snails, for these creatures cannot creep over a surface so covered.
The stinging hairs of the nettles are perhaps the most wonderful of all protective structures, as far as British plants are concerned. Examine one of these hairs with a powerful lens, and you will observe that it is swollen at the base, where there is stored a small quantity of a powerful irritant poison. Then, strange as it may at first appear, the tip of the hair is not sharp, but rather terminates in a little rounded swelling. But the latter readily breaks off when the tip of the hair is touched, exposing a very sharp edge which easily penetrates the skin, while at the same time a minute drop of poison passes through the tubular hair into the puncture.
Stinging Hairs of the Nettle (magnified)
Although the stinging nettle is so well provided with multitudes of poisonous weapons, it is eagerly devoured by certain insects, and that with perfect impunity. Look at a patch of nettles, in a sunny situation, during July or August, and you will probably find scores, if not hundreds, of black caterpillars covered with rather large spines. These, when very young, live together under the protection of a common silky web; but as they grow older they gradually disperse themselves. If the caterpillars are black all over with the exception of their hindmost ‘legs,’ and minute white spots on the body, they are the grubs of the beautiful peacock butterfly; but if they are greyish beneath, and have two yellowish stripes down the back, they belong to the common tortoiseshell butterfly. In either case, take some of the caterpillars home, house them, and feed them daily on fresh nettle; and it will certainly be only a few weeks before you have had the opportunity of witnessing their wonderful changes, terminating finally in the emergence of really beautiful winged creatures.
It may be mentioned that the caterpillars described constitute the second brood of the year, for others preceded them in June, the first brood having been produced from eggs laid by butterflies which spent the winter in hibernation.
Other common butterflies are double-brooded, and on sunny waysides may now be seen the second broods of the white butterflies and of the beautiful little copper.’
Few countryside rambles are more enjoyable or more instructive than one along the banks of a stream, whether the latter be a swift mountain rivulet, wending its way among moss-capped boulders, or a silent, sluggish stream flowing through a broad expanse of meadow land.
On the banks we are sure to meet with some of the water-loving trees—the dark-hued alder, and various species of willows and poplars.
The alder is easily distinguished by its very broad, rounded, smooth leaves, which are sharply toothed at the edges; as well as by the ripening fruits which, at the present time, look much like small pine-cones.
There are many species of British willows, and it is not always an easy matter to distinguish between them without a careful examination of their flowers, which, in most cases, appear in early spring. However, it is not difficult to identify the commonest of the willows that grow on river-banks, at the present season, by their general form and their foliage.
The largest of them is the white willow, which grows to a considerable height, and bears narrow leaves of an ashy grey or whitish colour. The purple willow has leaves of a similar form, but they are smooth and green above, and usually whitish beneath. Its twigs, like those of the white willow, are yellow, greenish, or purple, but it is a much smaller, shrubby tree. A third species—the osier —is shrubby, with long, twiggy branches which are used largely for basket-work; and its long, narrow leaves are coated with a silvery down underneath. Then there is the sallow, a bushy tree with broad, wrinkled leaves, covered beneath with a short down, and of a greyish-green colour above. You can always recognise a poplar by the peculiar way in which the leaves flutter in the breeze, swinging themselves rapidly from side to side with a rotatory movement. This feature is due to the fact that the leaf-stalk is flattened at the sides, and not from above, as is the case with leaves generally. Such tremulousness is most marked in the aspen, a rather small tree with rounded, deeply-toothed leaves that are very thin and pale, but not downy underneath. The white poplar is a much taller tree; and its leaves, which are larger and more deeply cut, are covered with a very dense cottony down underneath. A third species, the black poplar, has rhomboidal or triangular leaves without any down beneath. It is a tall, spreading tree, but a cultivated variety of it, known as the Lombardy poplar, assumes a narrow, pyramidal form.
Our ramble along the ri