At the day ' element that redeems even the longest 



Turn of an d dreariest midwinter ; the sense of the 



the Year. eve r-moving ichor in the eternal veins ; the 



inward exultation at the ever-quickening and 



ever -slowing, but never-ceasing fans of life 



and death. 



Yesterday, rain - fog ; to - day, frost - mist. 

 But how fascinating each. How vast and 

 menacing the familiar oaks looked, leaning 

 gigantic over dim lapsing hedgerows. How 

 phantom-like and processional, the elms steal- 

 ing into view one after the other ; the birches 

 disclosing tresses wet with dews from the 

 secret woods they are gliding from to regain 

 the secret lands beyond the misty river where 

 I can hear the mallard call, like a sudden 

 tocsin among the falling towers and silent 

 avalanches of Cloudland. 



It is desolate here, where I stand. 



" Cinnidh feanntag 's a ghdradh 

 'N uair thig faillinn 'san rds'' 



" Nettles grow in the garden, 

 While the roses decay." 



A long way off yet till the wood-thrush rings 

 his falling chime from the April-Tree or French- 

 Broom, as the laburnum is called in some parts 

 of the Highlands. I know a wood where a 

 great Bealaidh Fhrangach sleeps, to awake 



64 



