A Woodland Walk. 163 



whirled up in sudden eddy, hurry headlong down the 

 path like the phantom dance of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 



And when for a brief space there streams through 

 rifted clouds a flood of sunshine down the wooded 

 slope, then all at once the pallid greens and yellows 

 on the heads of oak and elm, all the bright colours 

 of the thickets, glow as in the light of dawn. The 

 splendour brightens even the sombre foliage of the 

 firs and kindles on their ruddy branches with the 

 sheen of gold. 



The dwellers in the woodland, too, the light-hearted 

 elves that chatter in the tree-tops, raise their voices 

 above the rattle of the boughs and the rustle of dead 

 leaves, to welcome back the lost glory of the summer. 



A creeper, gliding mouse-like up the stem of a 

 reeling ash-tree, searching the crevices of the bark for 

 insects as he goes, puts new strength into his feeble 

 note. 



A troop of coal-tits start a ringing measure as they 

 swing among the firs. 



An oxeye, too — a smarter fellow than his sober- 

 coated cousins, with his yellow vest and black facings 

 — chimes in with his musical refrain, and for a minute 

 or two the merry chorus recalls the opening days of 

 spring. 



High up in an elm-tree, from which the screen of 

 leaves has fallen away, is a woodpecker's hole. It is 

 long since the little family climbed out into the world, 

 and, holding on tight with crooked claws, wandered 



11 — 2 



