WOOD SILENCE 63 



There is no music sweeter than wood si- 

 lence. I am enjoying it now. It is not 

 strictly silence, though it is what we call by 

 that name. There is no song. No one 

 speaks. The wind is not heard in the 

 branches. But there is a nameless some- 

 thing in the air, an inaudible noise, or an 

 audible stillness, of which you become con- 

 scious if you listen for it ; a union of fine 

 sounds, some of which, as you grow inwardly 

 quiet, you can separate from the rest beats 

 of distant crickets, few and faint, and a hum 

 as of tiny wings. Now an insect passes 

 near, leaving a buzz behind him, but for a 

 second only. Then, before you can hear it, 

 almost, a frog out in the swamp yonder has 

 let slip a quick, gulping, or string-snapping 

 syllable. Once a small bird's wings are 

 heard, just heard and no more. Far over- 

 head a goldfinch passes, with rhythmic calls, 

 smooth and soft, not so much sounds as a 

 more musical kind of silence. 



The morning sun strikes aslant through 

 the wood, illuminating the trunks of the 

 trees, especially a cluster of white birches. 

 A lovely sisterhood ! I can hardly take my 



