IN THE RAIN 153 



it never overlaps. When it does, it shows it s 



so.&quot; 



Perhaps I was not very clear, but he seemed 

 to understand. 



Since then I have heard it now and again, 

 this singing of the rain-swept woods. Not 

 often, for it is a capricious thing, or perhaps 

 I ought rather to say I do not understand the 

 manner of its uprising. Rain alone will not 

 bring it to pass, wind alone will not, and some 

 times even when they are importuned by wind 

 and rain together the woods are silent. Per 

 haps, too, it is not every stretch of woods that 

 can sing, or at all seasons. In winter they can 

 whistle, and sigh, and creak, but I am sure 

 that when I have heard these singing voices 

 the trees have always had their full leafage. 

 But however it comes about, I am glad of the 

 times that I have heard it. And whenever I 

 read tales of the Wild Huntsman and all his 

 kind, there come into my mind as an inter 

 preting background memories of wonderful 

 black nights and storm-ridden woods swept 

 by overtones of distant and elusive sound. 



We did not hear the woods sing that day. 

 Perhaps there was not wind enough, or per- 



