ll stand on
a still day when almost off.

Some now seize the rope, and alternately pull and slacken, which gives
the tree a tottering movement. One more daring than the rest drives a
wedge into the saw-cut as it opens when the tree sways. It sways--it
staggers; a loud crack as the fibres part, then with a slow heave over
it goes, and, descending, twists upon the base. The vast limbs plough
into the sward; the twigs are crushed; the boughs, after striking the
earth, rebound and swish upwards. See that you stand clear, for the
least branch will thresh you down. The flat surface of the exposed butt
is blue with stains from the steel of the saw.

Light taps with a small sharp axe, that cut the rind but no deeper, ring
the trunk at intervals. Then the barking irons are inserted; they are
rods of iron forged at the top something like a narrow shallow spoon.
The bark from the trunk comes off in huge semi-cylinders almost large
enough for a canoe. But that from the branches is best. You may mark how
at the base the bark is two inches thick, lessening to a few lines on
the topmost boughs. If it sticks a little, hammer it with the iron: it
peels with a peculiar sound, and the juicy sap glistens white between.
It is this that, drying in the sun, gives the barked tree its colour: in
time the wood bleaches paler, and after a winter becomes grey. Inside,
the bark is white streaked with brown; presently it will be all brown.
While some strip it, others collect the pieces, and with them build
toy-like sheds of bark, which is the manner of stacking it.

From the peeled tree there rises a sweet odour of sap: the green mead,
the green underwood and hawthorn around, are all lit up with the genial
sunbeams. The beautiful wind-anemones are gone, too tender and lovely
for so rude an earth; but the wild hyacinths droop their blue bells
under the wood, and the cowslips rise in the grass. The nightingale
sings without ceasing; the soft 'coo-coo' of the dove sounds hard by;
the merry cuckoo calls as he flies from elm to elm; the wood-pigeons
rise and smite their wings together over the firs. In the mere below the
coots are at play; they chase each other along the surface of the water
and indulge in wild evolutions. Everything is happy. As the plough-boys
stroll along they pluck the young succulent hawthorn leaves and nibble
them.

It is the sweetest time of all for wandering in the wood. The brambles
have not yet grown so bushy as to check th