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    Old Man of the Woods: Walks and Talks with Two Boys
    Old Man of the Woods: Walks and Talks with Two Boys
    Old Man of the Woods: Walks and Talks with Two Boys
    Ebook154 pages2 hours

    Old Man of the Woods: Walks and Talks with Two Boys

    By Marcus Woodward

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    About this ebook

    “Old Man of the Woods - Walks and Talks with Two Boys” is a novel by naturalist Marcus Woodward. Aimed at children, it revolves around two young boys and their conversation with an old woodsman who imparts information to them relating to nature and their surroundings. This charming little book would make for ideal bedtime reading children with an interest in nature. Contents include: “At the Shepherd's Bush”, “The April Fool's Cuckoo”, “On Primrose Beds”, “A Butterfly's Wings”, “Joe Takes the Cake”, “Travels in a Tree-top”, “As Quick as Thought”, “A Slug-Hunter”, “In the Hayfield”, “The Old, Old Trail”, “By the Sweet-Briar Hedge”, “King Sol”, “Looking out for Squalls”, “The Days of the Hare”, etc. Many vintage books such as this are increasingly scarce and expensive. It is with this in mind that we are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition complete with a specially-commissioned new introduction on camping and woodcraft.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateFeb 7, 2018
    ISBN9781528784160
    Old Man of the Woods: Walks and Talks with Two Boys

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      Book preview

      Old Man of the Woods - Marcus Woodward

      Chapter I

      At the Shepherd’s Bush

      Roaming over the Downs one day, with his two friends, Scouts Jack and Joe, Old Man of the Woods, after a long spell of silence—he believes in silent walking—suddenly burst into song on coming into view of a shepherd. He sang:

      When the milkmaid singeth blythe,

      And the mower whets his scythe,

      And every shepherd tells his tale

      Under the hawthorn in the dale—

      and then broke off to ask the boys, Now, what sort of tale do you suppose the shepherd was telling?

      A love tale, suggested Jack.

      The tale he told would be the tally of his sheep, said Old Man. And the hawthorn in the dale under which he told his tale would be what is called a shepherd’s bush; that is to say, a bush curiously cut and trimmed, with all the inner wood whittled away, so that an oval cup was formed by the outer branches. The top of the trunk would form a platform, made comfortable by straw, so that the shepherd could rest on the cup’s edge as he looked about him and made the tally of his sheep.

      Does that explain the name of the place in London called Shepherd’s Bush? asked Jack.

      When that place was open heath, said Old Man, doubtless there grew a particular hawthorn where the shepherds kept their watch.

      Why, said Jack, as they drew nearer to the shepherd and his flock, do shepherds always carry crooks?

      Why do Scouts carry staves? asked Joe, in mockery.

      The crook, said Old Man, is for catching a sheep by its hind leg, or a lamb by the neck. The crook consists of a ‘barrel,’ into which the stick fits, giving way to a thin, curving hook called ‘the guide,’ ending in a curl, so that no sharp point hurts the sheep. The old-time crooks often were made by village blacksmiths from old gun-barrels, and, indeed, they are still so made.

      I would like to have a shepherd’s crook, said Joe. It would be useful when nutting.

      I will sell you one that I own for two pounds, said Old Man, and that is cheap.

      They now came up to the shepherd, and passed the time of day. Old Man said afterwards, one should always go out of the way to pass the time of day with a shepherd, because his life is a lonely one, and often he will enjoy a crack with you, provided you are not what he calls a foreigner. Old Man began to ask the shepherd about his sheep-bells, and he showed them a specimen of a fine old bell, with flakes of copper on its surface. ’Twas sweet music, the shepherd said, that his bells made, and it carried far; and he told a story of how one day he had heard the music of the bells of his sheep at a distance of four miles.

      Jack had a question for him.

      Is it true, shepherd, he asked, that a shepherd knows by sight every one of his flock of sheep?

      Folks like to say so, said the shepherd, chuckling; but, he added, in his honest Sussex dialect, it bain’t true, leastways not always, let-be-how-’twill. All the same, he added, we know the Hobbledy-Jacks.

      Pray, what are the Hobbledy-Jacks? asked Jack.

      Lambs we have brought up on the bottle, explained the shepherd. They follow us everywhere as if we were their own mothers. Reckon, he added, glancing at the sun, ’tis time I folded the ship.

      SHEPHERD’S SUNDIAL

      (He pronounced the word sheep, as ship.)

      You can tell the time by the sun, I suppose? said Jack.

      By its shadow ’tis easy, said the shepherd. Now, this is how you makes a shepherd’s dial. On a smooth piece of turf the shepherd marked out a circle, scratching a line in the grass with his crook. He said it must measure eighteen inches across, and as Old Man had been engaged on map-making—a favourite occupation as he goes about the country with the Scouts—the little pocket rule he carries gave the exact measurement.

      Collecting some short sticks, the shepherd now stuck one upright in the centre of his circle. Due south of this, on his circle, he set up another stick twelve inches long. (Old Man’s compass gave him the true line.) Another stick he set up likewise, due west. In between these two, he set up five others at equal distances, and thus completed his sun-dial.

      The five sticks, he explained, stood for the hours from one o’clock in the afternoon until five o’clock.

      The shadow of the third stick from the one marking the south point of the compass now fell directly on the stick in the centre of the circle.

      ’Tis three o’clock, said the shepherd. Time to fold me ship.

      Chapter II

      The April Fool’s Cuckoo

      Old Man of the Woods, with Scouts Jack and Joe, was sitting on a pile of flints by the wayside. Old Man says flints make a most comfortable couch. It was Easter Sunday, and the last day of March. Bees were droning among the sallows; brimstone butterflies were hovering over primrose beds.

      On Easter Monday, sir, said Jack, Joe and I intend to be on the trek all day. Do you think we might see a swallow?

      Certainly you might, said Old Man. "You might see two or three swallows, as they come home from tropical Africa, perhaps from Cape Colony. Then days may pass before you see another. It may be that, having come faithfully home to their nesting-place of last year, they retire for awhile to where they may easily find food by some river, moat or pond. They may take life easily for awhile, as they have weeks ahead of them before they must think about nesting. In Sussex we call the fourteenth day of April ‘first swallow day.’

      So you might see an early house-martin, and certainly you should see sand-martins if you trek past any sand-pit which they haunt, for they are the first of the swallow tribe to come home.

      What other migrant birds might we expect? asked Jack, taking out a notebook and pencil.

      "One of the first of our summer warblers to come in is the little chiffchaff, which cries its own name—‘Chiffchaff, chiffchaff!’ The notes are like the great tit’s, but the great tit cries, ‘Ox-eye, ox-eye!’ Also you may hear the chiffchaff’s cousin, the willow-wren, on 1st April, and may enjoy listening to one of the sweetest songs in the world, the song which runs down the scale, the song of ‘the dying fall.’ The two little warblers are much alike to the eye, but the chiffchaff is slightly the smaller, a trifle browner, has more rounded wings, while a certain sign of distinction is that its legs are a darker brown.

      "The chiffchaff should come in March, as should a bird of the open fields, where cattle are grazing, the yellow wagtail, called ‘barley-bird’ in Sussex, as it comes at the time of the spring sowing. As they say in France, it is the ‘little shepherdess of the spring.’

      "In March or early April the wheatear comes home from its winter quarters in the tropical parts of Africa, to keep shepherds company on lonely sheep-walks, a handsome bird, always recognised by the way it flits from stone to stone, displaying a distinctive white patch on its rump.

      Then you should listen in for the wryneck, called the cuckoo’s herald, as its clear call, one high, repeated note, sounding like ‘pay, pay, pay!’ spreads the news that the cuckoo is coming.

      Old Man whistled the wryneck’s call.

      Like a kestrel’s, said Jack.

      Or a hobby’s, said Old Man. If you hear it, try to stalk the bird, as it is one of the greatest curiosities among all our birds. Its neck might be made of indiarubber, and it can turn its head to look behind it as easily as a weathercock turns in the wind. Its mottled form, chequered like a fritillary’s wings, perfectly matches the bark of trees. It will hiss like a snake, writhing its neck, if disturbed on its nest, hence its name, snake-bird, and it is named emmet-hunter from its habit of attacking ants’ nests. You may watch its long tongue flicking out for the cocoons, looking like a flash of silver. Sussex woodmen name it the rinding-bird, as its cry proclaims that the sap is rising in the trees, insects are stirring in the bark, and it is time to fell the trees and strip the bark. Naturalists have sometimes been deceived in thinking they have heard a remarkably early wryneck when the note has really come from a lesser spotted woodpecker.

      THE CUCKOO’S BILL

      Do you think we might hear a nightingale on April 1st? inquired Jack.

      Quite probably, said Old Man.

      And might we hear a cuckoo?

      Certainly, said Old Man. Nightingale and cuckoo often make a close race for home. It is an old tale that it is fortunate to hear a nightingale before a cuckoo. You may set a nightingale singing if you can whistle a few of its notes, and you may call up a cuckoo if you can cry ‘cuckoo’ like a cuckoo-clock which refuses to stop striking. The art of calling it up is to call more softly as its answering shouts grow louder. At last the bird may land on a tree within full view, and start calling its name to you at about the rate of two thousand times an hour. Then perchance you may notice that as it calls it keeps its bill closed.

      Neither Jack nor Joe ever had observed this remarkable point. As Jack said to Joe later, it is the glorious thing about walking with Old Man, he is always telling you what every Scout ought to know, but few think about.

      I would love to hear a cuckoo again, said Jack, adding the cuckoo’s name to the list of birds in his notebook.

      Joe also had been writing, and now slipped a note into Old Man’s hand. It read:

      "Easter Monday—All

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