tree, and fell upon the listening ear with the far- 

 off cadence of the surf, but sweeter and more 

 lyrical, as if it might proceed from some celestial 

 harp. Though there was not a breeze stirring be- 

 low, this vast tree hummed its mighty song. Ap- 

 parently its branches had penetrated to another 

 world than this, some sphere of unceasing melody. 

 There is a difference in the voices of trees. 

 Some with difficulty utter any note, or answer to 

 the storm alone; others only sigh and shiver. 

 There are days when they gently murmur together, 

 as if a rumor of general interest had reached them. 

 Again the woods are silent, until one enters a 

 grove of white pines, when on the instant a sweet 

 low chant falls on the ear. Come upon the aspen 

 on quiet days and it is all of a tremor, in a little 

 ecstasy by itself, while the rest are mute. Trees 

 change their songs with the season. In winter the 

 whistling, rattling, roaring of hickories and oaks 

 is a veritable witch-song, beside which the voices 

 of midsummer days are as the cooing of doves. 

 During a quiet snowfall, the white crystals sifting 

 through the pines convey the idea of a gentle so- 

 ciability somewhere in the branches overhead, the 

 softly whispered and amiable gossip of pine-needles 



