jo Idylls of the Field. 



musical tongue to some distant comrade of the green- 

 wood. The ringdove, brooding on her white eggs 

 among the ivy, hears you not till you are close beneath 

 her tree, and then crashes out with a loud clatter of 

 her startled wings. 



But still, you are only on the threshold; not yet 

 have you reached the heart of the woodland. Only 

 to him who steals silently along by unfrequented 

 ways the timid children of the wood reveal their secrets. 

 Only for him who enters by the postern gate are the 

 little dramas of their lives laid bare. 



There is no broad pathway now, no entrance well 

 defined ; the thickets are tangled, and the way is 

 rough. 



The trunk of a grey old ash-tree hewn down long 

 since, and left forgotten where it fell, lies half buried 

 in the soft earth. Shell-like fungi, marked with 

 delicate wavy lines of green and brown and yellow, 

 cling by hundreds to the crumbling bark. Strong 

 sprays of bramble arch it over. Springing leaves of 

 meadow-sweet promise a canopy of fragrant foam. 

 Midsummer will hide it altogether with grass and fern, 

 and broad leaves of the burdock. 



And like some huge rock that winter storm has 

 hurled into a mountain stream, the old tree has made 

 more devious still the uncertain path that wanders idly 

 through the bushes. 



On either side rises a tall elm whose boughs lean 

 down to sweep the very ground. 



