168 OVT OF DOORS. 



the chilling sight of the splendid oaks, which we have 

 so long loved, lying like murdered corpses on the ground, 

 their white and gnarled limbs stretched out as if stiffened 

 in deadly agony, and their rugged bark, erst rich with 

 moss and lichen, stacked in heaps by their sides. 



Some unimaginative persons talk of the dull uni- 

 formity of the forest — you might as well talk of the 

 dull uniformity of the Strand or Eegent Street, and 

 with much more reason of the dull uniformity of Kotten 

 Eow. The real deep, primitive forest is ever changing, 

 and in one day may pass through a thousand phases. 

 Putting aside the two great epochs of summer and 

 winter, of leafless branch and wealthy foliage, of green- 

 clad boughs and snowy shroud, together with the inter- 

 mediate state of spring's delicate green and autumn's 

 ruddy brown, there is hardly a day when the forest does 

 not assume a new aspect as each hour passes away, and 

 in which its threefold harmonies of sight, sound, and 

 scent are not woven into a thousand varied modulations, 

 like a fugued melody of some great master in music. 

 Mendelssohn always reminds me of a forest. No one 

 can appreciate a forest who has not passed whole days 

 in its solitary depths, and watched it from the early 

 morning hours to the deep, dark shades of night. 

 Different birds, insects, and flowers make their appear- 

 ance at their chosen hour, and there are many creatmes 

 which emerge from their hiding-places only for a brief 

 space, and then return into darkness and solitude for 

 the remainder of the day. The sweet voices of the 



