MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



How early the short November day draws to 

 its close! All the joyous touches that relieve the 

 grayness have vanished, and cheery song and lively 

 chatter alike have ceased, for the merry little 

 wood-folk have gone to their shelter. Now we 

 hear no sound save the beautiful, mournful strains 

 of the sonata pathetique among the wind-swept 

 pine-tops, and into the deeper recesses of the for- 

 est the gloom of dusk has already made its way. 



But in our drift-wood harvest we have that 

 which will bring back to us not only the solemn 

 influences of this twilight hour, but all the cheer 

 and brightness that preceded it. Season after sea- 

 son will pass before us while merry sparks fly 

 and dancing flames enfold our forest gleanings. 

 We shall hear again the hum of insects and the 

 songs of birds. We shall breathe the sweet air 

 of the pines and the fragrance of violets will reach 

 us; and thus through days of cold and storm or 

 long winter evenings, as treasure after treasure is 

 given to the flames, the story of the woods will be 

 told anew and the happy forest days lived again. 



