64 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



eyes from them. In general all the leaves 

 are motionless, but now and then a tree, or 

 it may be a group of two or three at once, is 

 jostled for an instant by a touch too soft for 

 my coarser human apprehension. " Dee-dee" 

 says a titmouse ; " Here," answers a flicker. 

 But both speak under their breath, as if they 

 felt the spell of the hour. Listen ! was that 

 a hyla or a bird? There is no telling, so 

 elusive and so distant-seeming was the sound. 

 And anon it has ceased altogether. 



Now, for the smallest fraction of a second, 

 I see the flash of a moving shadow. The 

 flicker's, perhaps. Yes, for presently he calls 

 as in spring, but only for four or five notes. 

 If it were April, with the vernal inspiration 

 in his throat, there would be four or five 

 times as many, and all the woods would be 

 ringing. And now the breeze freshens, and 

 the leaves make a chorus. No thrush's song 

 could be sweeter. It is not a rustle. There 

 is no word for it, unless we call it a murmur, 

 a rumor. Even while we are trying to name 

 it, it is gone. Leaves are true Friends, they 

 speak only as the spirit moves. " Wicker, 

 wicker," says the woodpecker, and his voice 

 is in perfect tune with the silence. 



