halet "put together without nails", near by which is the
well-known "Shambles Oak" or "Robin Hood's Larder", so called because in
its hollow interior once were hooks for the storing of stolen venison.
Unfortunately this fine tree was fired by some holiday-makers years ago,
and to-day there is something pathetic in the valiant greenness of its
scanty leaves. It is like an old, old man who will be brave to the end.

Thence, by passing along the glades of Birkland and following paths
faintly worn--with a chance of straying into strange solitudes--one
comes before long to the "Major Oak"--the most virile of all the ancient
trees. In spite of its iron stays--possibly because of them--it is still
vigorous and hearty, although its age has been estimated at considerably
more than a thousand years. There is something monstrous and uncanny
about this veteran; in its vicinity folk of to-day seem strangely out of
place.

A pleasant old keeper watches it vigilantly, careful that none shall
harm his treasure. He has a curious enough favourite: a fine cock
pheasant which comes to his call--has done so indeed for the last four
years--and daintily accepts plumcake from his hand. Once this bird had a
mate; now he remains a contented widower. The quaintness of the
good-fellowship of man and bird is very pleasant to observe.

The circumference of the "Major Oak" at the height of five feet from the
ground is over thirty feet, and the circumference of its branches is
about two hundred and seventy yards. It was formerly called the "Queen's
Oak", or the "Cockpen", the latter because of a fine breed of gamecocks
that roosted there in the days of a Major Rooke, to whom it owes its
present name. The tree is hollow, and, entering by a narrow
opening--difficult enough for a stout person to negotiate--seventeen or
eighteen may crowd together in the interior. Not far away is another
magnificent tree, less known but almost equally worthy of admiration. It
is called the "Simon Foster Oak", from the fact that a century ago a
person of that name kept his pigs in acorn-time nightly under its
shelter.

Thence Edwinstowe may easily be reached by a path across the green.
Historically the village is of some importance, since, according to
general belief, Edwin, the first Christian King of Northumbria, was
buried there. It is a sleepy, comely place; in winter the warm
colouring of old brick and tile is very pleasant to the wayfarer, whilst
throughout the o