A SONG OF SUMMER 75 



heat; but here in the rich muck, 

 screened from the fierce noon sun, it 

 grows unscathed and opens flower by 

 flower in all perfection. 



An upward pitch rolls to the crest of 

 woods, and smaller ferns make the 

 undergrowth; overhead are oaks and 

 beeches; here and there a silver birch 

 gleams with light, and from a copse of 

 dogwood, cornel, pepperidge, black 

 thorn, some aspens twirl and balance 

 their odd leaves as if trembling with 

 excitement. Entering the woods on a 

 full summer day, it always seems as if 

 another world of thought, speech, and 

 sense lay open, that the mystic wood- 

 sounds, the creaking of interlacing 

 branches, the snapping of twigs, and 

 leaf lappings, might be construed as a 

 language to tell of the tree's life and 

 desires. For trees are totally unlike 

 in their moods and influence, and give 



