trees, flew from nest to nest, looking down into them from a height of a few feet, and apparently expecting to find a brood small enough for one to be carried off before the old birds returned. The hawk's visit only lasted for a minute, for at that moment five old herons came sweeping over the wood, and remained soaring in hurried and anxious flight far above the tops of the loftiest trees. When we retired to some distance and stood still by a timber stack, bird after bird pitched on the trees, and after one or two subdued croaks of greeting, flapped down into the nest. The eyries appear absolutely inaccessible, built, as they are, at heights of from seventy to ninety feet from the ground on trees which rise twothirds of that height without a single branch. Yet they are climbed, otherwise the inquiry as to whether you "could do with some young herons "or young "cranes," for both names are used in the forestwould not be addressed to those who are known to have a taste for keeping odd pets so often as it is.

There are a few ancient inhabitants who still know the favourite nesting places, not only of the herons, but of rarer birds, such as the common and honey-buzzard. The forest is said to be the last breeding place of the honey-buzzard left in England, and there is no reason, in the present condition of the woodlands, why either of these birds should forsake the district, except in the prices offered for their eggs by "oologists." The keepers protect a nest when found, and as the honey-buzzard does not lay till summer is well advanced, there is more chance of its nest escaping observation than for those of the earlybuilding birds.

The strangest survival of any industry connected with the taking of wild animals in the forest is that of the "Adder-hunter," probably the very last representative in England of a race who for upwards of two centuries have contributed their strange nostrum of adder's fat to the pharmacopoeias of central and western Europe. The last of the Adderhunters is a strikingly handsome man, probably past his sixtieth year, short, with curling beard and hair, and equipped in what is probably a unique costume for his peculiar trade. Thick boots and gaiters protect him from the chance of a bite from the snakes. He is slung all over with bags of sacking, his pockets are stuffed with tins and boxes, and from his chest hangs a pair of long steel forceps. In his hand he carries a light

stick with a ferrule, into which when he rouses a snake he puts in a short forked piece of hazel wood, and, darting it forward with unerring

aim, pins the adder to the ground. Stooping down he picks it up lightly with the forceps, and after holding the writhing creature up for a moment, in which he looks like a rustic Esculapius, he transfers it to his

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sack. Mr. Mills, or "Brusher," as he is known among his friends, is a wellknown and popular character in the forest, and his services in keeping down the number of adders are considerable. From March to September he ranges the forest, and his largest "bag" was 160 adders in a month. These he boils down, and prepares from their flesh the "adder's fat,” which he sells. Its virtues have been known for so many centuries, and the favour with which extremely penetrating unguents, such as lanoline, made from the fat of sheep's wool, are now regarded, justifies the reputation it enjoys. The belief that it is a remedy for the bite of the snake itself may rest on slender grounds. But for the odd list of accidents given by the old man-" sprains, black eyes, poisoning with brass, bites by rats and horses, rheumatic joints, and sore feet in men and dogs," it is admitted by the general consent of the forest to be a sovereign balm. In winter the Adder-hunter's occupation is gone, but he has other modes of making a livelihood, and his lodging throughout the year is in the woods, in the snug interior of a charcoal-burner's hut.

Brockenhurst, unlike Lyndhurst, which, with all its picturesque features, bears itself like a little town, is a true village, imbedded in the forest. Here the ground is stiff clayey loam, suitable for the growth of oaks, and consequently for corn and arable land. The square fields, with hedgerows, which fringe the village give an uneasy sense of limit and confinement after the free and open woodlands. But the cultivated land is a mere patch, lost to sight and memory in a few minutes' walk from the village. The church stands apart on a little hill, a perfect forest shrine, ringed by a double circle of oaks, between which lie the graves, sprinkled with primroses that have crept out from the wood, and spread their flowers shyly on the churchyard turf. Like the new church of Lyndhurst, the building stands upon a green mount. A giant yew, sound and vigorous, with a solid stem eighteen feet in girth, overshadows the red-brick tower, and reaches halfway up the spire. In front of this tree stand the dead fragments of an oak. The age of this ruin of a tree is almost beyond conjecture, but its position gives some clue to its date. Part of one branch survives. This limb, which appears to be some six feet in diameter, must have passed across the space on which the greater part of the yew now stands, at a height of thirteen feet from the ground. Thus when the ancient