66 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



air lets it down, as loving arms lower a 

 child to its burial. Yet the trees are still 

 happy. And so am I. The wood has blessed 

 me. I have sensations, but no thoughts. It 

 is for this that I have been sitting here at 

 this silent concert. I wish for nothing. 

 The best that such an hour can do for us is 

 to put us into a mood of desirelessness, of 

 complete passivity ; such a mood as mystics 

 covet for a permanent possession; a state 

 of surrender, selflessness, absorption in the 

 infinite. I love the feeling. All the trees 

 have it, I think. 



So I sit in their shadow, my eyes return- 

 ing again and again to those dazzling white 

 birch boles, where loose shreds of filmy bark 

 twinkle as the breeze and the sunlight play 

 upon them. Once two or three chickadees 

 come into the branches over my head and 

 whisper things to each other. Very simple 

 their utterances sound, but perhaps if I 

 could understand them I should know more 

 than all the mystics. 



