1 6 IRature Stubies in Berfcsbire. 



which whisper or roar from these shrill chords, are 

 all on its poetic side ; and it is good to have one's 

 life sung over again in any music of nature or of art. 

 The poet who unbraids the strand of romance from 

 the dullest life, and weaves it into his song, soothes 

 as he sings the heart of him who bows under the 

 burden which the poem celebrates. A man's home 

 never suggests his daily drudgeries when it looks 

 back at him from the canvas of the artist. These 

 maple-trees give back such a dreamy, idealised echo 

 of humanity and its stir and bustle and business, that 

 one takes it as he does the song which repeats his 

 sorrow and the picture which shows his home. One 

 lies beneath them and looks out upon the fields, as 

 he would lie upon the safe cliff and behold the sea 

 break impotently at his feet. They suggest the 

 world, but they breathe forgetfulness and comfort, 

 too. They are friendly in their hints, and only stir 

 the happiest memories. 



But the maples are not always moved to speech. 

 There are hours in the morning or late in the hot 

 afternoons when their leaves are as motionless as the 

 everlasting hills. There are moments when leaves, 

 and twigs, and the smaller boughs rise and fall with 

 a movement as faint as the last breath of old age. 

 These are the times when they lull to dreamless 

 sleep, or to the dreams which do not wait on sleep. 

 Then the drone of the locust comes up from the 

 field ; the melodies of the small birds beguile the 

 ear ; and one almost fancies he can hear the corn 



