Where then whole clans, broke up the tents of home 

 the Forest and departed on the long mysterious exile. 

 Murmurs. Ye t this sentinel at the Gate of the North 

 stood undaunted, splendid in warrior array. 

 The same instinct that impels the soul from 

 its outward home into the incalculable void 

 moves the leaf with the imperious desire of the 

 grey wind. But as, in human life, there are 

 some who retain a splendid youth far into the 

 failing regions of grey hair and broken years, 

 so in the forest life there are trees which seem 

 able to defy wind and rain and the consuming 

 feet of frost. 



The most subtle charm of the woods in 

 November is in those blue spaces which lie at 

 so brief a distance in every avenue of meeting 

 boughs, under every enclosing branch. This 

 azure mist which gathers like still faint smoke 

 has the spell of silent waters, of moonlight, of 

 the pale rose of serene dawns. It has a light 

 that is its own, as unique as that unnameable 

 flame which burns in the core of the rainbow. 

 The earth breathes it ; it is the breath of the 

 fallen leaves, the moss, the tangled fern, the 

 undergrowth, the trees ; it is the breath also 

 of the windless grey-blue sky that leans so 

 low. Surely, also, it is the breath of that 

 otherworld of which our songs and legends 

 are so full. It has that mysteriousness, that 



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