of some magnificent prospect, the sudden glory of which makes us pause almost spellbound with admiration. As we turn into the descending road towards Bramshaw it seems as if all the colouring spread upon the wide-extending, open and heathery moorlands through which we have been wandering were compressed into a small space, for the enjoyment here is pre-eminently for the eye alone. It is veritable fairyland. The purple of the bordering Heather; the gold of the Dwarf Furze; the feathery grace of the Bracken, dyed in green and red and amber and orange; the glint of the Holly, the deep, glossy green of which sets off with singular beauty the bright red berries; the gold and green and bronze of the autumnal Oak leaves and the fiery glow of the fading Beech-all unite to make a picture of surpassing loveliness which yet, in spite of its wealth of colour, does not dazzle but charms the eye. Our way goes down, down, into the very bosom of the woods. And now the silence of Nature is broken by the gurgle of running water along the wayside. Looking down to follow the course of the stream the eye lights upon a prospect, away below and over the golden haze that hovers above the tree tops in the valley into which we are descending, of distant wooded hills lying beyond the forestal limits. On and down still by a sea of waving Bracken, the setting sun with dying splendour burnishing into brighter glory the gold and amber of the Oak and Beech leaves, making crimson the fronds of Fern and deepening the purple of the Heather bells; flashing on the gold of Furze, sparkling from the Holly, and crimsoning the foliage of wild Strawberry which trails upon the turf. Down still, and when we reach the valley bottom we still wander on between Oak and Beech and Holly and by forest glades all purple and gold with Heather and Gorse. In the deepest hollow of the charming valley we cross a brook whose banks are gorgeous with the blossoms of Heather and Furze. And as if these colours were not rich enough a light bank of fleecy cloud, which floats in the western sky, is encrimsoned by the setting sun-whilst by it floats a cloudy mass of orange and one of purple, making a combination of loveliness such as is rarely seen even in the glorious sunsets of the New Forest. Our path now winds on and up but we are still shut in on all sides by woods. To our left a waving sea of Bracken sweeps gracefully upon the hillside to the foot of a wood which crowns the hill, whilst, on our right, forest lawns descend over a slope to woods that lie in the hollow below. Turning round at this point towards the setting sun we note a change in the cloudy mass which a few minutes before had claimed our attention; for from our new point of view the cloud mass is brilliantly empurpled, reflecting upon the woods which sweep over the hill a glow of fiery radiance. In another moment we have left the forest and have entered the long and straggling village of Bramshaw. |