Our road winds and gently ascends as it leads further away from the village of 'The Badger's Wood,' passing between meadows upon whose undulating surface and out of whose leafy hedges grow richly-foliaged Oaks, upon the heads of which the sun is shining bringing out the varying colours of early Autumn. From some of these trees the deep greenness of summer has scarcely given sign of change, though a warm tinge of colour betokens the early commencement of the inevitable transformation. Others appear

almost lighted up by the spreading autumnal tints, whilst others again are dyèd with russet hues.

From the point we have reached we can get a pretty view, if we turn round and look back, of the village of Brockenhurst, as it lies at the end of our vista. Just beyond the railway we have recently crossed, a vignette is formed. The roadway beneath, the sky above, and trees on either hand, enclose an enticing picture enriched by colours of red, blue, white, and green. The lower part of this picture is formed by the redbrick and white-walled houses of Brockenhurst,

roofed with slate and tile. Above the highest housetop rises the tall white column of a railway signal, and beyond and above stretches-rising against the horizon-the dark-green expanse of the forest. But a bend in our road to the right soon shuts out the view of village and forest, and of all houses, and leaves us only the pleasures of the shady wayside.

Winding onwards and upwards between oakbordered, undulating meadows and hedgebanks, which, though green with the verdant leafiness of grass, and many other wild plants, are empurpled by the changing foliage of the Bramble-the little stream on the left side of our way making its voice heard, but in very gentle accents, on the incline-we reach the top of the hill. Here, for a moment, there is a homely change in the character of the scenery and one of those pleasant contrasts-between cultivation and wildness-so often afforded in England. One of three ponds by the roadside is occupied by a number of ducks whose presence attests the proximity of a farmstead. The ducks are holding a sort of amateur regatta and, with evident

enjoyment, are wildly splashing about, their yellow beaks contrasting strikingly with the green, white, black, and brown of their plumage. Away on the right, across bordering hedgebanks and their adjoining fields and meadows, we can just see the crests of the forest uplands as they sweep around the horizon from the west towards the north.

Taking a turn round to the right, upon what is now, for a short way, our level road, we pass a tiny strip of open forest, with Oaks overspreading undergrowths of Furze and Bracken, of Holly and Bramble, Hawthorn and Blackthorn, twining round the stems and twigs of which White Bryony shows its large leaves, some still green and others richly empurpled, the berries of this beautiful shrub beginning to pass from their early hue of green into a rich shade of yellow preparatory to emerging into the full glory of their final autumnal colouring.

We soon reach the little village of Setley, whose farmhouses, cottages, and homesteads lie along on the left-hand side of our road, the white walls of one slate-roofed cottage standing

out in strong relief against its background of woodland and sky, whilst the brown thatch of another cottage is made sombre by the vividness of a great patch of light, golden-green moss which covers nearly half of the roof-surface. Beyond the village we come upon an expanse of open forest which stretches away on our right towards the west until the rise of the uplands, at the near horizon, ends the view. Here the ground is spread, as far as the eye can reach, with Gorse and Heather. The Heather is now on the wane, but its late blossoms still empurple the ground and contrast with the brown of the faded floral cups which, on the same flowerstems, encompass the tiny but expanding seed capsules. The Gorse, though blossomless, preserves its hue of green, the sober uniformity of which is enlivened by the blossoms which peep out from beneath its prickly clumps-blue Harebells, golden Tormentils, and purple intermingling Heather-bells.

Continuing our way the road dips as we pass through the little hamlet of Battramsley and is here bordered by enclosures on our left-hand side

and by the edge of the open forest on our right— the autumnal embrowning of the Bracken, at this point, contrasting with the green of the Gorse and the purple bloom of the Heather, and with the golden richness of many clustered blossoms of the Tormentil.

Before emerging from the dip in our road we catch sight, away to our left, of a pretty little bit of charming English scenery. To get a view of it we must look over the quickset hedge on our left a hedge of thickly-matted twigs of Hawthorn, whose stems are grey and gold with encompassing Lichen-green foliage, with purplebrown edges, and vermilion berries. In our line of vision we see meadow, cornfield stubble, and wooded uplands descending into a quiet wooded hollow. On the meadows cattle are quietly browsing, their red, white, and brown markings prettily contrasting with the spreading green turf of the meadows. The cornfields, shorn now of their crops, are made picturesque by the presence of irregularly-scattered wheat stacks. Red-brick, blue-tiled cottages, with whitened fronts, stand here and there half-hidden by screening trees