THE SINGING PINES 53 



high in air above. Its voice was that of the gale 

 anywhere when unobstructed. You may hear it 

 at sea or ashore, a hubbub of tones indistinguish- 

 able as gust shoulders against gust and grumbles 

 about it. In the quiet at the bottom of the wood 

 I could hear this, too, especially at times when 

 the wind lifted above the pine tops, leaving them 

 in hushed expectancy of the story to come, a tell- 

 ing oratorical pause. For a little the voice of 

 the gale itself would come burbling down into the 

 momentary stillness, then with a gasp at the awe- 

 someness of the tale the pines would take up the 

 story again. In it there was none of the dainty 

 romance the boughs will weave for the listener 

 who cares to know their language of a sunny 

 summer afternoon, little stories of tropic seas, of 

 nodding sails and of flying fish that spring from 

 the foam beneath the forefoot and skim the 

 purple waves. This song was an epic of the age- 

 long battle between the sea and the shore, a song 

 without words, but told so well in tone that it 

 was easy, seeing nothing there in the black 

 shadow of the wood, yet to see it all; the jagged 

 horizon against the sullen sky, the streaks of 

 mottled foam sliding landward along the welter- 

 ing backs of black waves, spinning into sea drift 



