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THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL 229
the passing of the scythe before they appeared, so that
they could enjoy life undisturbed until the frost killed
them. He crossed the stubble field, climbed over the
fence, and the sport began.
On the short, springy turf, woven of reed-grass and
stunted mudwort, the mushrooms lay scattered like new-
laid eggs, waiting for the sun to enable them to fulfil
their destiny before they decayed ; but that was impossible
now, since fate had decreed that they should die in their
youth.
He left the battlefield and entered the forest with its
odour of turpentine—health and sick-room—balm for the
wounded breast, as the saying is ; he walked below the
branches in a dead calm, while twenty yards above his
head the tempest shrieked. A woodcock flew up; the
branches rattled. If only he had a gun !
Why does a man long for a gun whenever he happens
to come across a harmless creature of the woods? There
are many occasions in life when a gun would be much
more in its place.
Here was a cart track ; the wheels of the cart, drawn
by oxen, had cut deeply into the turf ; nevertheless, a
red species of the poisonous spit-devils had shot up in the
ruts ; maybe they required strake-nails and kicks from
the hoofs of oxen before they could enter into material
existence.
The wood opened out and the path ceased at a place
where many trees had been felled ; before him lay what
remained of the giants of the forest, cut down by the axe
because it had been impossible to dig them up with the
roots. He gazed at a huge stump which had been attacked
by a host of fungi of all sizes ; they had settled on it as
a swarm of flies settles on carrion, but their crowd was
densest round the decayed parts which they could over-
come more easily ; they looked starved, pale and bloodless ;
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