IN THE RAIN 151 



drifting mist, it seems to grow smaller and 

 more intimate. Instead of feeling the multi- 

 tudinousness of the life of woods and fields, 

 one feels its unity. We are brought together 

 in the bonds of the rain we and all the 

 hidden creatures we seem all in one room 

 together. 



Thus swept into the unity of a dominating 

 mood, the woods sometimes gain a voice of 

 their own. I heard it first on a stormy night 

 when I was walking along the wood road to 

 meet Jonathan. It was a night of wind and 

 rain and blackness blackness so dense that 

 it seemed a real thing, pressing against my 

 eyes, so complete that at the fork in the roads 

 I had to feel with my hand for the wheel ruts 

 in order to choose the right one. As I grew 

 accustomed to the swish of the rain in my face 

 and the hoarse breath of the wind about my 

 ears I became aware of another sound a 

 background of tone. I thought at first it was 

 a child calling, but no, it was not that; it was 

 not a call, but a song; and not that either 

 it was more like many voices, high but not 

 shrill, and very far away, softly intoning. It 

 was neither sad nor joyous; it suggested 



