TREES AT LEISURE 



clad, this time in a glittering 

 raiment of soft snow. Such a 

 day is the apotheosis of winter, 

 and one must needs go into the 

 still forest and worship. The 

 stillness is commensurate with 

 the whiteness. The trees them- 

 selves seem conscious of it, and 

 rebuff the iconoclast breeze with 

 their slowly and silently moving 

 branches. How differently the 

 same forest meets the wind a 

 few days later when a storm 

 is brewing! Then the stiff 

 branches with their twig-sprays 

 tear the howling intruder into 

 whistling shreds, until there is an 

 all-pervading roar that is unlike 

 any other of nature's sounds. 

 It might well be compared to 

 the surf breaking on a rocky 

 shore, if it were not that it 

 seems overwhelming instead of 



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