144 Idylls of the Field. 



You climb over the rocky barrier of the shore, and stroll 

 into the forest. 



Life is not abundant in a place like this. You may 

 wander for hours and see no living thing. 



At last there is a sound of something falling 

 on the withered leaves. From far overhead looks 

 down a black squirrel, whose white breast relieves the 

 inky colour of his coat. He is busy at his dinner, but, 

 if you move a step nearer, he drops his fir-cone and 

 disappears behind a branch. Next moment you catch 

 sight of him in another tree racing like the born 

 acrobat he is, along boughs that hardly bend beneath 

 his tread. 



He is gone. The silence is the deeper for his 

 going. 



The sense of solitude is almost painful. The great 

 trees divide you from the outer world. The green 

 roof shuts out the very sky. 



It is a relief to come upon a little clearing where the 

 pines stand back to make way for the sunshine. The 

 ground is brightened with a touch of colour. Tall 

 yellow foxgloves lift their heads above the ferns ; and, 

 among the brilliant flowers of a patch of willow herb, 

 pale Alpine butterflies sun their lovely wings. Across 

 the sky a great buzzard floats, sailing in wide circles, 

 calling now and then perhaps to some comrade beyond 

 our ken. 



There is a sudden rustle on the dead leaves. Light 

 footfalls are approaching from behind the rocks. You 



