Such was old England--or rather, such was this land before it was England; a far sadder, damper, poorer land than now.

For one man or one cow or sheep which could have lived on it then, a hundred can live now.

And yet, what it was once, that it might become again,--it surely would round here, if this brave English people died out of it, and the land was left to itself once more.
What would happen then, you may guess for yourself, from what you see happen whenever the land is left to itself, as it is in the wood above.
In that wood you can still see the grass ridges and furrows which show that it was once ploughed and sown by man; perhaps as late as the time of Henry the Eighth, when a great deal of poor land, as you will read some day, was thrown out of tillage, to become forest and down once more.

And what is the mount now?
A jungle of oak and beech, cherry and holly, young and old all growing up together, with the mountain ash and bramble and furze coming up so fast beneath them, that we have to cut the paths clear again year by year.

Why, even the little cow-wheat, a very old- world plant, which only grows in ancient woods, has found its way back again, I know not whence, and covers the open spaces with its pretty yellow and white flowers.