I N the quiet woods and all among the yellowing hedge-
rows, in the glade and under the ancient tree standing alone in the pasture, wherever a solemn oak spreads its crooked limbs the ground beneath is thickly bestrewn with acorns. They lie on the bare soil between the gnarled roots. They nestle amongst the short grass and hide under the shadow of the withered branch torn off in the fury of the recent gale. In places they are almost as thick as pebbles on a shore, and they shine in rain or morning dew, or after the white frost that melts away under the early glance of day, as though just washed by a receding tide. When the gentle sun- light of an Indian summer peers at them from a sky of hazy blue through gaps in the mellowing autumn foliage, their smooth enamelled rinds glisten with a, clean freshness that might have done credit to growing buds in the showers of spring. For those newly fallen from their little cups are of a light yellow green, whilst others have lain some time upon the ground to ripen into a soft nut-brown. And every now and again one more slips shell, to strike with a sort of splash upon the quivering yellow of the hazel copse, or into the crimson- berried tangle of the honeysuckle and bryony-bound hedgerow, or to drop with a little thud upon the soft turf of the open field. In personal appearance they look more attractive than either the walnut or the filbert. They suggest a more specious promise of something good to eat, and having picked up an acorn one is tempted to go a-nibbling. It is a poor sort of nut, so bitter and astringent that it seems incredible that this could ever have been used for human food. Yet it does appear that humanity once shared the acorns with the swine. Boiled acorns were a repast which men survived. It is a matter for the human race to reflect upon with pride; proving, as it must, not only the strength of the primitive unpampered stomach, but that with our ancestors strict moderation ruled the feast. An immoderate consumption of acorns will kill an ox, or even a herd of oxen. Hence the sage advice of wise old Tusser : " For fear of a mischief keep acorns from kine." In his day doubtless acorns were largely picked up and stored for winter use. Young stock especially will eat them greedily ; and now when they lie strewn upon the ground we adopt the simpler measure of keeping cattle, during the months of October and November, from those fields where many oaks shower down this alluring danger.
During October and November an unusual number of visitors pay a constant succession of attentions to the old oak-tree. A stray cock pheasant is the earliest to call. Some little time before the village folk come into the fields to gather the wild harvest of the bramble, he goes a-black- berrying, and wanders along the sunny side of the hedgerow, plucking such of the first ripe fruit as hangs within reach, with the leisurely enjoyment of a gentleman in a garden of plenty. And after all, a good sprawling bramble is almost a garden in itself. Thorns, leaves, buds, and pale mauve flowers in full bloom, all grow on those blight purple stems, side by side with shining berries, both green and black. The bird's plumage is majestic ; and as he raises his head to pick, a collar of silver may be seen around his throat. He walks with the air of a conqueror, and, indeed, he may have come from Japan. Thus he learns to wander from his quiet copse. Well he loves the blackberry, but he is a glutton for acorns ; and, having come upon them, will eat until he can hold no more. If you should see him when his crop is round and full, you might think him, in spite of his sumptuous finery, no better than an Alderman after all. A little later come the rooks. As soon as the walnuts, in their thick outer coats of green, have been taken in from the old trees near to the homestead, and these persistent thieves, having cleared the leavings, can find nothing more to steal, they begin to congregate upon the avenue of oaks that shelter the drive through the park. They flatter amongst the leaves and cling to the swaying twigs as they did when after the nuts. They alight on the grass underneath the branches, and strut about upon the smooth white road in their shining black, having a keener eye to any such acorns as may have been crushed under passing wheels. Very often they have for company a small flock of grey wood- pigeons as busy as themselves. But these things are some- what a matter of chance, for the pigeons would rather eat the mast of the beech as long as there is any. And last of all, when everything is quiet just at dusk, old grey rats, with all their grown-up progeny, come stealthily out from under ricks and stacks, and from holes in old walls and hedgerow banks. They listen to make mire that every voice is hushed, and wait. if any footstep break in upon the lonely silence. But all grows dark and still. In the frosty starlight they venture far afield. The nights are long. But the hours until dawn are spent in patient industry. Acorn after acorn is carried to be cellared and kept in store for winter use ; for, like the squirrel, the rat is prudent, and lays up a winter supply.
In early days, mast being held in great value for the feeding of swine, the swineherd was a common figure in autumn woods. Even in the King's forests, and in times
when the strictest laws were in force, the right of pannage, a privilege of running bogs, was granted to householders in the neighbouring settlements. As late as Chaucer the word " acorn " was applied to the edible fruits of all forest-trees, and even he distinguished by speaking of the " Acornes of Okes." The popular etymology, therefore, which sought to account for the word as merely a contraction of "oak-corn," appears to be incorrect. It was based on the spellings " ake- corn " and `• oke-corn," which did not, however, creep in until the fifteenth century. The earliest form of all, " tecern," seems to bear evidence of its origin, and to claim relationship with " weer," which meant originally the open country. 'Hence its application to the fruits of the unenclosed forest. The last remaining relic of the swineherd is the boy from the farm who drives the old sow and her litter under the oak-trees, after the stubble has been picked bare, and perhaps given to the plough. For still the acorns are not all wasted or left to the birds and rats. Though they are said to make hard bacon, little pigs will grow, and older ones do well, upon them. And if they should grow fat, what need to tell the butcher F Towards the end of Fall, wherever permission is given and oaks are plentiful, groups of acorn-pickers, young and old, may be seen stooping under the trees. They come from the cottages that have a pigsty in the garden,—the children too young for work and the old " gratumers" who are past it. Along the hedgerows and to the single trees they come on the last of the fine autumn days and the earliest of winter, bringing their tins and baskets and a sack-bag (belonging in good right to some miller most likely) to serve as a main receptacle. Or if they own no pig, still there is a shilling to be earned from the thriftier neighbour who does. And to the children there is delight in this humble gleaning of the mast that was once wealth but is now held in poor esteem. They call the acorns "cups and saucers," and believe that they can pick up every one. Yet Nature is so magnificently lavish in all her ways, that after pheasants, rooks, rats, swine, and gleaners have done their best or worst, there will still be abundance of seed left under the old oak in the pasture-field, to shoot up in the spring with their two fresh leaves, and be cut off by the mower or trampled under the hoofs of grazing kine.
WALTER. RAYMOND.
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