The Heart of the Forest. 143 



Along the farther side there glides a skiff, across the 

 water floats the beat of oars, and clear and shrill at 

 intervals comes the chorus of a song. 



The sounds have ceased. There is silence every- 

 where, save that from the mountain-side you hear at 

 times the soft plash of a waterfall, or the faint tinkle of 

 a cow-bell from a distant alp. 



The soft blue shadows of the pine-trees as you drift 

 along suggest a cool retreat. You ground your skiff 

 on a little beach of shingle, and go ashore into the 

 forest. Tall silver firs on either hand rise like the 

 columns of the green canopy overhead. About their 

 roots is spread a thick carpet of ferns, and moss, and 

 bilberry plants. 



At your feet there lies a pool, as green as emerald. 

 The rocky shore, the stately pines, are mirrored in its 

 perfect face. Among the smooth stems of the trees 

 the eye may catch brief glimpses of the dim recesses 

 of the forest. 



There is no pathway here, no trace of man. The 

 footprints on the shore are of the roebuck and the 

 heron. The signs of labour are the half-gnawed fir- 

 cones some squirrel has scattered on the ground. 

 Two great dragon-flies, with spots of purple on their 

 rustling wings, poise over the water. No other sound, 

 nor sign of life. It is an enchanted spot. Are there 

 no shadowy figures stealing away into the forest, no 

 dryads peering from behind the trees ? It is a place 



Where elves hold midnight revel, 

 And fairies linger still. 



