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woodland path; the stealthiness of the Weasel, as he winds through 
the grass seeking his prey, and the shuffle, shuffle of the Hedgehog, 
as he pokes his nose here and there among the herbage ; the Fox 
steals silently across the glade, and you would almost imagine his 
feet were shod with velvet, so quietly does he slip over the ground; 
the rustling of the willows and the long grasses at the water side 
give a “swish,” “swash,” as some gentle zephyr sways them to and 
fro, and the ‘bibble,” “babble” of the stream keeps up the 
musical rhythm in a soothing undertone, as it gently washes the 
roots of the alders as they lean their trunks over and above it, and 
then, in some quiet dell, kissing their feet, as if to atone for its 
presumption ; blundering beetles dash against your face in their 
erratic flight, and soft-winged moths brush against your cheek ; 
but at the first grey streak of dawn what a change comes over the 
scene, as the early birds strike up their morning hymns. Who, at 
any time of life, can enter the precincts of some of our old woods 
without feelings of wonder, awe, and silent, devout pleasure? The 
delicate tracery of the branches overhead, like gothic arches in a 
minster ; the depths of green; that stillness, that is more saintly 
than the chill repose of a cathedral; the balsamic odours that assail 
your senses, that are neither like fruit or flower, but a combination 
of roots, fir apples, and the perfume of the countless needles of the ~ 
pine, and high up among the canopy of leaves come the sweet 
songs of the birds, giving an idea of the ethereal joy in the heaven 
above. And, more than that, comes the spirit-like whisper of the 
wind through the heavy branches of the fir, and to no other tree 
does that babbler, the wind, tell such long, complaining stories; 
that same wind that flirts with the gay and graceful larch as a lady- 
love for a summer’s day, that blows hoarse to the oak, speaks in a 
shrill whisper to the birch, moans to the beech, but when it draws 
near to the pine its voice becomes deep, mellow, and exceeding 
sad, like an old song with a mournful close. Morning on the sea, 
on the moor, on the mountains, I have enjoyed, but give me 
morning in the cool depths of the woods, before the glow and 
heat of mid-day, before the glittering world of insect life is hum- 
ming, buzzing, and tormenting you, when the sun and birds have 
