WHERE THE FOREST MURMURS 



IT is when the trees are leafless, or when the 

 last withered leaves rustle in the wintry air, 

 creeping along the bare boughs like tremulous 

 mice, or fluttering from the branches like the 

 tired and starving swallows left behind in the 

 ebbing tides of migration, that the secret 

 of the forest is most likely to be surprised. 

 Mystery is always there. Silence and whispers, 

 still glooms, sudden radiances, the passage of 

 wind and idle airs, all these inhabit the forest 

 at every season. But it is not in their ampli- 

 tude that great woodlands reveal their secret 

 life. In the first vernal weeks the wave of 

 green creates a mist or shimmering veil of 

 delicate beauty, through which the missel- 

 thrush calls, and the loud screech of the jay 

 is heard like a savage trumpet-cry. The woods 

 then are full of a virginal beauty. There is 

 intoxication in the light air. The cold azure 









