whisper will become a voice. And yet there Where 

 is something withheld. In November itself the Forest 

 there are days, weeks even, when a rich Murmurs « 

 autumn survives. The oaks and ashes will 

 often keep their red and orange till after St. 

 Luke's Peace ; in sheltered parts of the forest 

 even the plane, the sycamore, and the chestnut 

 will flaunt their thin leopard -spotted yellow 

 bannerets. I remember coming upon a 

 Spanish chestnut in the centre of a group of 

 all but leafless hornbeams. There seemed to 

 be not a leaf missing from that splendid con- 

 gregation of scarlet and amber and luminous 

 saffron. A few yards on and even the hardy 

 beeches and oaks were denuded of all but a 

 scattered and defeated company of brown or 

 withered stragglers. Why should that single 

 tree have kept its early October loveliness 

 unchanged through those weeks of rain and 

 wind and frosts of midnight and dawn ? There 

 was not one of its immediate company but was 

 in desolate ruin, showing the bare nests high 

 among the stark boughs. Through the whole 

 forest the great unloosening had gone. Even 

 the oaks in hollow places which had kept 

 greenness like a continual wave suspended 

 among dull masses of seaweed, had begun to 

 yield to the vanishing call of the last voices of 

 summer. Day by day their scattered tribes, 



7 



