O the great and happy Beech,
Glorious and tall!
Changing with the changing months,
Lovely in them all:

Lovely in the leafless time,
Lovelier in green;
Loveliest with golden leaves
And the sky between,

When the nuts are falling fast,
Thrown by little me—
Tiny things to patter down
From a forest tree!

Slowly, slowly, growing
While I watched them well,
See, my nuts have ripened;
Now I’ve news to tell.
I will tell the Squirrel,
“Here’s a store for you;
But, kind Sir, remember
The Nuthatch likes them too.”

I will tell the Nuthatch,
“Now, Sir, you may come;
Choose your nuts and crack them,
But leave the children some.”
I will tell the children,
“You may take your share;
Come and fill your pockets,
But leave a few to spare.”

Tread quietly:
O people, hush!
—For don’t you see
A spotted thrush,
One thrush or two,
Or even three,
In every laden elder-tree?

They pull and lug,
They flap and push,
They peck and tug
To strip the bush;
They have forsaken
Snail and slug;
Unseen I watch them, safe and snug!

My shoots are tipped with buds as dusty-grey
As ancient pilgrims toiling on their way.

Like Thursday’s child with far to go, I stand,
All ready for the road to Fairyland;

With hood, and bag, and shoes, my name to suit,
And in my hand my gorgeous-tinted fruit.

Cool dewy morning,
Blue sky at noon,
White mist at evening,
And large yellow moon;

Blackberries juicy
For staining of lips;
And scarlet, O scarlet
The Wild Rose Hips!

Gay as a gipsy
All Autumn long,
Here on the hedge-top
This is my song.

My conkers, they are shiny things,
And things of mighty joy,
And they are like the wealth of kings
To every little boy;
I see the upturned face of each
Who stands around the tree:
He sees his treasure out of reach,
But does not notice me.

For love of conkers bright and brown,
He pelts the tree all day;
With stones and sticks he knocks them down,
And thinks it jolly play.
But sometimes I, the elf, am hit
Until I’m black and blue;
O laddies, only wait a bit,
I’ll shake them down to you!

To English folk the mighty oak
Is England’s noblest tree;
Its hard-grained wood is strong and good
As English hearts can be.
And would you know how oak-trees grow,
The secret may be told:
You do but need to plant for seed
One acorn in the mould;
For even so, long years ago,
Were born the oaks of old.

I was a warrior,
When, long ago,
Arrows of Dogwood
Flew from the bow.
Passers-by, nowadays,
Go up and down,
Not one remembering
My old renown.
Yet when the Autumn sun
Colours the trees,
Should you come seeking me,
Know me by these:
Bronze leaves and crimson leaves,
Soon to be shed;
Dark little berries,
On stalks turning red.

Have you seen at Autumn-time
Fairy-folk adorning
All the hedge with necklaces,
Early in the morning?
Green beads and red beads
Threaded on a vine:
Is there any handiwork
Prettier than mine?

Bright and wild and beautiful
For the Autumn festival,
I will hang from tree to tree
Wreaths and ropes of Bryony,
To the glory and the praise
Of the sweet September days.

My berries cluster black and thick
For rich and poor alike to pick.

I’ll tear your dress, and cling, and tease,
And scratch your hands and arms and knees.

I’ll stain your fingers and your face,
And then I’ll laugh at your disgrace.

But when the bramble-jelly’s made,
You’ll find your trouble well repaid.

Here in the wayside hedge I stand,
And look across the open land;
Rejoicing thus, unclipped and free,
I think how you must envy me,
O garden Privet, prim and neat,
With tidy gravel at your feet!

(In early summer the Privet has spikes of very strongly-scented white flowers.)

When Blackthorn blossoms leap to sight,
They deck the hedge with starry light,
In early Spring
When rough winds blow,
Each promising
A purple sloe.

And now is Autumn here, and lo,
The Blackthorn bears the purple sloe!
But ah, how much
Too sharp these plums,
Until the touch
Of Winter comes!

(The sloe is a wild plum. One bite will set your teeth on edge until it has been mellowed by frost; but it is not poisonous.)