THE POSTERN GATE. 



ABROAD and well-kept highway winds down this 

 quiet glen. Noble woods, whose fresh young 

 leafage brightens in the sweet May weather, clothe the 

 sides of the ravine, and far in among the green depths 

 all day the birds are singing. 



But the trees stand back for the most part behind 

 a fringe of fields. The flowers that light the shadows 

 about the feet of the tall beeches look down from a 

 distance on the wistful eyes of the wayfarer. 



Bright butterflies flit across in the sunshine, and toy 

 and circle in the air, and seem like points of light 

 against the living green. 



Now and then a jay drifts overhead to her nest 

 among the trees that cling to the steep sides of the 

 valley. 



From the larches on the hill the soft voices of 

 ringdoves ripple downward through the dreamy air. 



Out of the hedgerows, that, with their lavish flowers, 

 their ivy-clad tree-roots, and their wealth of green, are 

 the very outposts of the wood, shy field-mice creep 



