MY WOODLAND. 61 



than a naturalist's elysium. In the dim cathedral 

 light of the " wildwood privacies," the birds find 

 many a quiet boudoir in which to hold their trysts, 

 or solemn conclaves, or tell the old-new story of 

 love, build their nests, and rear their children ; 

 while in the "leafy galleries" of the trees and 

 saplings they find perches from which to cliant 

 their voluntaries. How often I have loitered along 

 the fringe of the woods or in its " braided dusks," 

 and listened while 



" The little birds sang as if it were 

 The one clay of summer in all the year." 



Thus far I have spoken chiefly of the eastern 

 part of this woodland tract. Westward, beyond 

 the railroad and a wagon highway, there stretches 

 a broad belt of timber for fully half a mile if not 

 more, which differs somewhat in character from 

 the portion already described ; that is, it is almost 

 wholly clear of underbrush, while the tall oaks, 

 hickories and other trees stand so close together 

 in most places, that their branches interlock over- 

 head. Near the western extremity there is a shady 

 hollow that zigzags through the whole width of 

 the woods, and then joins another hollow at the 

 south, forming a green glade by the timber's bor- 



