When Woods are Bare. 175 



dark foliage, wander here and there among the bushes, 

 and hang their chains of rubies in the wintry sun. But 

 the red tresses of the beech lie thick on all the slopes 

 with the glow of a rich sunset; the last leaves of 

 the oak have floated gently down in drops of golden 

 rain ; the spoils of elm and sycamore, loosened by the 

 frost and scattered by the storm, are spread over the 

 earth like the pall of some barbaric chieftain. 



Among the leafless trees the children of the forest, 

 who all the summer long found a safe asylum in the 

 greenwood, whose very presence was hardly noticed in 

 the quiet autumn days, now make themselves plain 

 enough to the least observant of wayfarers. 



There is a stir of wings in all the tree-tops. The 

 thickets are haunted by troops of eager and industrious 

 foragers. On the ground is the rustle of innumerable 

 tiny feet turning over in quest of insects the brown 

 and yellow leaves. 



One of the plainest to be seen of all the company is 

 the jay. In the spring-time he is shy and quiet, hiding 

 himself far aloof in the green depths of copse or 

 underwood, or among the shadows of an unfrequented 

 orchard. His voice is rarely heard. He flits silently 

 away at the approach of danger, and his bright wings 

 are seldom seen beyond the limits of his cover. 



In the late summer, when household cares are over, 

 he and his family leave the shelter of the woods and 

 join the clans in their raids upon the ripening grain. 

 In the winter these parties are by voice and dress 



