conditions which are not within the purview of statisticians. Soon, for example, it will be forgotten that fifty years ago we realised the monstrous sum of 181. an acre for a certain lot because two brothers were bidding for it in fratricidal mood. And what economist of the future will know that a bumper sale in more recent times can be explained by the chill which held to bed the one dealer who was almost a rich man, and so allowed those who feared this Bumtagg to bid for lots on which he had set his eye? Only after taking the mean of prices over a longish period can conclusions be safely drawn, and only when so treated do the columns of Thorold Rogers give much instruction. As to his occasional notes upon them, they simply prove that his acumen was not on a level with his industry. Noticing a steep rise in prices during the sixteenth century, he tells us this was due to building operations in which hurdles were employed in the scaffolding as platforms for the masons. As well might he have said that it was connected with the number of hurdles required for dragging the victims of religious persecution to the place of execution. Apparently he forgot that this was the age when men were eaten of sheep.' Between the hurdle, and consequently the underwood, and the sheep, the connection has until very lately been close and constant, and, for all my interest in the prosperity of the coppice, I must admit that the sixteenth century rise in prices was unhealthy, as sinister in its way as that which had followed the Black Death.

Thenceforward the appreciation in the value of underwood was steady rather than rapid until in the second half of the eighteenth century there was again an upward leap owing to new methods of farming. But the veritable heyday was reached just over fifty years ago, and from that date to the present I can quote from the records of a Hampshire property well known to me. Selling the crop of about 50 acres, the owner from underwood alone cleared throughout the 'sixties an average net profit of 4941. annually, apogee coming with 582l. in 1868. In the 'seventies the decline began, was strongly marked in the second half, and the average for the decade was but a trifle over 400l., the sale of 1879, after allowing for expenses, bringing in only 2781. For the 'eighties, however, the average was no more than 260l., for the 'nineties 205., whilst in the new century things went from bad to worse until in 1906 income from this source had sunk to 61l. Thereafter matters tended to mend, and between that year and 1913 inclusive the mean was 1351.

When war began its effect was soon felt in the coppice, though less violently than elsewhere. At the sale in November 1914 the woodmen were thinking about the struggle rather than actively engaged in it. But in the next year, and the next, it was another

story. The young men had gone or were going, and none was so old as to be sure of being left. A veteran who received the callingup' paper meant for his nephew hugged it with pride whilst refusing to act upon it. Anyhow, at one and the same time there was shortage of labour and sheep farming was out of favour, so the hazel did not count for much. What saved the situation was the usually unconsidered birch. Birch was needed for munitions, though what munitions we never heard. Strange men came, cut ton upon ton, and carted load upon load to a place called the works,' where fabulous wages were being earned. In his book entitled Trees, Sir Herbert Maxwell remarks that the small branches and spray of the birch are serviceable in the preparation of steel plates,' and this, it may be, was the clue to the mystery. For a while we flattered ourselves that we were helping to beat the Boche, but anon, though the cutting continued, the carting ceased. The Ministry of Munitions had taken control. Huge stacks stood derelict, and these would have decayed had not the Armistice supervened. Then men, women and children, with sacks and barrows, came from the adjacent hamlet to help themselves to the wood which none thought to protect, as it was the property of none but the State. For two winters at least the home fires were kept burning to the greater glory of Mr. Lloyd George, Mr. Montagu and Dr. Addison.

Of the years which have followed the war little good can be said. In 1918, in sight of victory, the proceeds of the sale ran into three figures, but, as far as the coppice was concerned, 1919, 1920 and 1921 were all years of utter slump. For 1922 I have not yet the complete figures, and for the next auction some slight improvement is expected, as the demand for hurdles is brisker than of late. The mind leaps to the idea that it is because more sheep are being kept, but the woodmen shake their heads, and tell me that the hurdles ordered are of strange sizes such as are used on golf links and for enclosing tennis courts. This tennis is a great trade,' one of them informs me. Perish agriculture ! vive le sport!

Anyhow, it is plain that though we cling to the hazel for its men and its traditions, it is to the spring timber sale that the woodland's owner must look for income. For this the ash is felled in advance before the sap rises, whilst the oak still stands when it comes under the hammer. Although reduced demand for underwood restricts us to about two-fifths of the area formerly at command, and we offer only trees passing their prime or obstructing the growth of others, recent prices do not compare too unfavourably with those of our palmiest days. Especially notable has been the increasing value of the ash, which is much sought for construction of aeroplanes, bodies of motor waggons,

and, of course, tennis rackets. If ever we learn to take the air as seriously as we once took the sea, British ash will have all the fame and status that belonged aforetime to British oak, unless in the interval our bogey of the 'all-steel 'plane' should have matured.

It is in early May that the activities of the coppice reach their maximum. Hurdling, felling and stripping are all going on at the same time. At that season to walk suddenly out of the high wood into a cutting an hour or so before sunset is almost to experience a shock. To the oaks freshly stripped of bark the light preceding cockshut gives a fleshy tinge, and as they lie with all their limbs yet on them, they have the look of sprawling, stricken giants. Here we have a proverb that a tree is never so tall as when it has been cut. The dealer who measures standing timber with rod and eye is apt to make conservative estimates, but that is not all. When we pass sentence on the tree, it is but one of many, and not till it is prone do we realise its might and majesty. To the pure Nature-lover, I suppose, the acres of the cutting where almost every vestige of green has been trampled off the ground have a look of unmitigated desolation, but for the humanist there is consolation. Work fit for men is in the doing, and it is being done by men worthy of the work. Further, the desolation is mostly superficial. Birds have no fear of woodmen. This year a chaffinch built in a pile of stakes before the hurdler had finished making it, and within 5 yards of the hurdle pile itself a wild pheasant brought off her young brood. Stacks of bark frequently provide the wrens with homes, whilst in the 'lands' blackbirds and thrushes nest cheerfully.

Vegetation, moreover, recovers quickly. Almost under the woodman's boots the sturdy sanicle thrusts up glossy leaves and rounded heads, and nowhere is there such riot of vigorous life as among the shoots of one or two years old. There, on the May evening, I saw bluebells, speedwell, stalky forget-me-nots, the fantastic spurge, and late primroses, all in bloom; misty masses of bugle yet in bud; the soft mullein; a patch of French willow; young burdocks and thistles that before the summer's end would tower over the sprouting stubs. To turn into a ride running through the high wood was to see the coppice in another aspect. Where the hurdler rules and cuttings are by rotation there can be no monotony. In the half-shade by the path's side, lady's smocks and stichwort formed a white border. In the deep shade, under hazels of sixteen years' growth, was the yellow of archangel, then the greenish grey of sanicle, a smell of dampness, and, for the rest, mystery. If woodmen as a class are better specimens of humanity than, say, pin-makers, there is ample reason why.

And, from all the converse I have had with them, I judge them

to possess such happiness as is within human reach. Labor ipse voluptas' is a hard saying, but applied to these men it is not merely a glib lie. They work early and late, and on days of drenching rain, and sometimes when there is a wind that must numb the heart with the fingers. Rheums and rheumatism do not always spare them. When the roundy sun' was dropping, Clare's woodcutter was happy as the best' to be going home, yet as he put down his bill and mittens a bird's song half held him. Questions of wages and profit concern our woodmen as much as every son of Adam not vowed to poverty, but hours do not seem to trouble them as others. There are no hooters to summon or to dismiss them, and in their workaday waistcoats they rarely carry watches. After all, there are many worse places than the coppice, and very few better.

Going homeward myself, I stayed to talk with one of the older workers of the wood, one whose head is stored with details of half a century of sales and cuttings. By his cottage under the big oaks he too was watching the descent of the 'roundy sun,' though all day he had been resting. He has been resting for months now, and, some say, will stay at rest. It is mostly of woodland lore that we have talked together in the past, but other thoughts are now obtruding on him. Missing the coppice, he is restless, yet he is not unhappy as the sun sinks. Like another brave man who watched it as he stood under a darker tree than any which grow here, he can say: 'Soon I shall be above yonder fellow.'

'A good man and a just.' May the coppice flourish, and the hazel and hurdle come into their own again, for abundantly are they justified in those who work upon them.

WILLOUGHBY DEWAR.

(D. Willoughby.)

THE POINT OF VIEW

'He has seen so much trouble, mesdames, le pauvre bête, he will not move.' We leave the horse browsing on what he may find among the bracken and brambles on this high clearing in the forest, and stroll to where we can look down upon the long valley of the Aisne, now bathed in autumn sunshine.

I had stood on this same spot in May 1914, when I had driven from Compiègne up a comparatively easy track which to-day is an almost pathless tangle. The bluebells had carpeted the glades with their matchless brilliance, and wild lilies of the valley were thrusting their sweetness through sheaves of tender green. The summer stillness had been broken by the rustling of small animal life in the undergrowth, the monotonous cooing of the wood-pigeon, and the harsh note of the jay, a bright flash of colour as he flew from tree to tree intent on mischief. The young coachman standing beside me had pointed out the beauties of the wide landscape at our feet with all the pride of personal possession.

'See, madame, the Aisne-is it not a fine river! And that is the Oise. How far we can see! And there are our cathedrals, Noyons and, further east, Soissons; see how the sun shines on them, madame.' And he waved a proprietary hand to where, far in the distance, the towers caught the light. 'Madame should visit them.' And madame did, but not, alas, until eight years later!

That smiling, prosperous valley of the Aisne-how little could we have imagined, as we looked down upon it in the May sunshine, what a field of carnage it was so soon to become. And yet on this September day, four years after the Armistice had been signed under the dripping trees on that grim November morning, the fields on either side of the flowing river appear scarcely less rich in cultivation than before. But where are the shining towers, the special pride of the young coachman? Where, indeed, is the young coachman himself?

'Noyons n'est plus,' remarks the old man who has driven us up to-day, noting the direction of my eyes, and, indeed, the disconsolate heap of ruins is scarcely visible, while the scaffold-enshrouded towers of Soissons are but a blur.

'Soissons is still there, but-' He shakes his head and turns