Oh, if only I could get the splendour of the woods down on my paper—the flaming beeches in the autumn, the fairyland of hoar frost later on, the gradual waking of the trees and birds and flowers in the spring, the scent of clover, and the sheets of daffodills, the mist of bluebells and the clouds of lilies. I know where the earliest primroses blow and the hedge where the birds build first. I could show you where to find the biggest blackberries and the bit of bog covered with the kingcups and milkmaids. There are ant hills, too, and a wasps’ nest in a hollow tree. The little paths and lanes are carpeted with moss and the undergrowth is sweet with honeysuckle. The woods are always lovely, but in the evening they grow ’tulgy,’ and the trees take fantastic shapes and the mossy lanes seem hushed and filled with mystery. When I was little I used to be glad then that the boys were with me, though I wouldn’t have admitted a creepy feeling down my spine to any one but father. The beautiful Hickley woods! They have a strange effect upon me. They seem to ’wash’ my mind. I never found it easy to be obedient, my bit of Irish blood always making me ’agin the government.’ I’ve got claws inside me, and feathers underneath my skin that get ruffled when I’m crossed. So when I was little and rebellious I always ran out of the house and across the garden into the woods. And sometimes Ross would come flying after me with comfort and advice. ’Why do you always run out in the woods Meg, when you’re naughty?’ ’’Cos they wash me.’ ’Oh, you are funny, darling,’ and then with a little air of protection that is always associated in my mind with Ross and sticks of chocolate, he would give me one and say,— ’But you _were_ raver naughty, you know; I think you’d better come in now and be sorry.’ So when the woods had ’washed’ me sufficiently I would go in and say I was dutiful now if father pleased. But once when I was five and some reproof of daddy’s had cut me to the heart, I added,— ’But my quick still hurts me. It’s all bluggy.’ I seem to have lived the best part of my life out in the woods. In them we played our games and had our endless picnics. In them I had the great adventure which caused me to become a doormat and let my brother trample on me all his life. When Ross and I were twelve we went out very early to spend a long day in the woods with Sam and all the dogs. We made for the lake. It was always the first item on our programme to dump the lunch and tea in a special hidyhole. While the boys were busy I decided that the one and only thing I wanted to do was to climb out and sit on the branch of a tree that overhung the water. I got halfway across it when Ross shouted to me angrily to come back, and Sam said the branch was rotten. ’I’m going to the end,’ I said, ’it isn’t rotten.’ ’_Will_ you come back, Meg?’