the foliage of all kinds of trees and shrubs is not only different in form, but the minutest serrations vary; so that the leaves of two kinds of trees are no more alike than any two human faces are alike.  The elm leaves are rough to the touch, like sandpaper, and their edges are clearly serrated; those of the beeches are smooth as parchment, and though the edges appear at first sight to be almost clean cut, they have very slight serrations, as if nature had rounded them with a blunt knife.  The lobed ivy leaves are likewise highly polished, and they have sharp, pointed tips.  The leaves of the common stinging-nettle ("’ettles” the labourers call them) have deep indents all round them.  A great dock leaf, in which the chives have a strange resemblance to the arteries in the human frame, has small shallow indents all round it.  Hazels are rough and almost round in form, save for a pointed tip at the end; they have ragged edges and ill-defined serrations.  Everybody knows the sycamore from its five lobed leaves; and the chestnuts and oaks are, again, as different as possible.  These are only a few instances; one might go on for a long time showing the endless variations of form in foliage.

Then there is the remarkable difference in colour and shade; not only are there a dozen different greens in one wood, but in one and the same beech you may see a marked contrast in the tone of its leaves.  For about midsummer some trees put forth a second growth of foliage, so that there is the vivid yellow tint of the fresh shoots and the dark olive of the older leaves on one and the same branch.  Of the rich autumnal shades I am not speaking; they would require a chapter to themselves.

There are other things to be noted in the woods besides the trees and the birds:  lots of rabbits and squirrels, not to mention an occasional hedgehog.  Squirrels are the most delightful of all the furred denizens of the woods.  Running up the trees, with their long brushes straight out behind, they are not unlike miniature foxes.  The slenderness of the twigs on which they manage to find support is one of the greatest wonders of the woods.  The harmless hedgehog, as everybody is aware, rolls himself up into a lifeless ball of bristles on being disturbed.  By staying quietly by him and addressing him in an encouraging tone, I lately induced a very large hedgehog to unroll himself and creep slowly along close to my feet.

It is very extraordinary how all wild animals, especially when young, can be won by kindness.  I once came across a young hedgehog about three-parts grown; he was running about on the grass in front of the house in broad daylight, and kept poking his little nose into the earth searching for emmets and grubs.  I made friends with him, dug him up some worms, and in less than half an hour he became as tame as possible.  Tom Peregrine, the keeper, stood by and roared with laughter at his antics, saying he had never seen such a “comical job” in all his life.  And