But what of the Forest- A wakener ? Who The 

 is he ? Her name, is it known of men ? Who Awakener 

 can it be but the Wind of the South, that 

 first-born of the wooing Year and sweetheart 

 Spring ? But what if the name be only that 

 of a bird ? Then, surely, it must be the wood- 

 thrush, or perchance the cushat, or, no, that 

 wandering Summer-herald, the Cuckoo ! Not 

 the skylark, for he is in the sunlight, lost above 

 the pastures : not the merle, for he is flooding 

 the wayside elms with ancient music of ever- 

 young love : not the blithe clans of the Finch, 

 for one and all are gypsies of the open. Per- 

 chance, then, the Nightingale ? No, he is a 

 moon-worshipper, the chorister of the stars, the 

 incense-swinger before the altars of the dawn : 

 and though he is a child of the woods, he loves 

 the thickets also. Besides, he will not come 

 far north. Are there not deep woods of 

 silence and dream beyond the banks of the 

 Tyne ? Are there no forest sanctuaries north 

 of the green ramparts which divide Northum- 

 bria from the glens of Tweed and the solitudes 

 of the shadowy Urr ? Are there no inland 

 valleys buried in sea-sounding woods beyond 

 the green vale of Quair ? Alas, the sweet 

 Songmaker from the South does not think so, 

 does not so dream. In moon-reveries in the 

 woods of Surrey, in starry serenades along 



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