of 



uplift, while in the very narrowest of the paths of 

 the woods. 



It was in the latter end of December, upon a 

 gloomy day that was heavy with the oppression of 

 a coming storm. In the heart of the maple swamp all 

 was still and cold and dead. Suddenly, as out of a 

 tomb, I heard the small, thin cry of a tiny tree frog. 

 And how small and thin it sounded in the vast 

 silences of that winter swamp ! And yet how clear 

 and ringing! A thrill of life tingling out through 

 the numb, nerveless body of the woods that has ever 

 since made a dead day for me impossible. 



That was an inspiration. I learned something, 

 something deep and beautiful. Had I been Burns or 

 Wordsworth I should have written a poem to Hyla. 

 All prose as I am, I was, nevertheless, so quickened 

 by that brave little voice as to write : 



The fields are bleak, the forests bare, 



The swirling snowflakes fall 

 About the trees a winding-sheet, 



Across the fields a pall. 



A wide, dead waste, and leaden sky, 



Wild winds, and dark and cold ! 

 The river's tongue is frozen thick, 



With life's sweet tale half told. 

 64 



