56 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



fared with the small folk of the forest. So fierce 

 was the onslaught of the wind that it seemed as 

 if the birds might be blown from their roosts, the 

 squirrels shaken from their nests. Under the 

 shelter of the trees themselves I knew they were 

 as safe as I from any harm from the wind. 

 There was not enough of it below the tree-tops 

 to ruffle a feather. 



To lay one's ear closely and firmly against the 

 trunk of one of these pines was to curiously get 

 an inkling of what was going on far up among 

 the branches. It is quite like listening at a tele- 

 phone receiver, the wood like the wire bringing 

 to the ear sound of many things going on within 

 touch of it. Thus placed, I was conscious that 

 the seemingly immobile tree swayed rhythmic- 

 ally, just the very slightest swaying in the world, 

 and this I seemed to hear. It was as if the slight 

 readjustment of the woody fibre gave me a faint 

 thrumming sound, a tiny music of motion that 

 was a delight to the ear after the beat and bellow 

 of the gale beyond. 



Twigs rapped one upon another, making little 

 crisp sounds. Most surprising of all, however, 

 was a tinkling tattoo of musical notes as if a 

 dryad within were tapping out woodland mel- 



