the eighteenth century
called the "Menagerie", because of a Duchess of Norfolk who kept an
aviary within its precincts. Mrs. Delany, in 1756, thus alludes to this
place: "We went there on Sunday evening; but I only saw a crown bird and
a most delightful cockatoo, with yellow breast and topping". There is an
air of pleasing disorder about the drives, and one is occasionally
reminded of Irish demesnes.

Within a mile of the house once stood the celebrated "Shire oak"--a
gigantic tree whose branches overshadowed a portion of Nottinghamshire,
of Derbyshire, and of Yorkshire. Evelyn tells us that the distance from
bough-end to bough-end was ninety feet, and that two hundred and
thirty-five horses might have sheltered beneath its foliage. This tree
disappeared entirely in the eighteenth century, and the exact site is
now a matter of some uncertainty.

SHERWOOD FOREST AND ROBIN HOOD

To savour the full charm of Sherwood Forest one must stray from the
highroad, lose one's path, and wander in happy patience until a broad
avenue is reached, or above the treetops one sees the slender and
graceful spire of some stately church. The formal beauty of the
frequented ways--trimly kept and splendidly coloured--precludes all
illusion: only in the remote solitudes with their monstrous old trees is
it possible to evoke a mind picture of Robin Hood and his devoted
followers. And even in the most secluded places the imagined pageant of
these folk suggests the theatre. The loveliness seems unreal--a
background devised by some scene-painter of genius.

But Sherwood is always beautiful and always tranquil; to those who know
aught of wood magic it is as fair in cold midwinter as in autumn, when
the leaves are no longer green leaves, but a rich mosaic of russet and
orange and sullen red. My most wonderful memory is of a November day
when a fine snow was falling, and the leaves drifted downward in a
continuous murmuring veil. Then, no rabbits played upon the grassy
wayside or crossed the track, and the pheasants shivered in their hidden
shelters. In early springtime one best realizes the antiquity; the
first opening leaves call to mind pale lichen growing upon damp castle
walls: in summer the air is languorous, bringing a desire for rest and
contemplation. Storms are impious there: the ancient oaks and birches
and chestnuts must wail and protest, like dotards wakened from senility
to cruel hours of actual life.

Of the old forest naugh