THE ARCHITECTURE OF TREES i6i 



A few days ago, while I sat writing, there 

 was not a breath of wind, and whenever I 

 looked up at the trees it was to see them 

 absolutely motionless. There is always some- 

 thing well-nigh unnatural in this perfect stillness. 

 It is as if the trees were silently expecting 

 some momentous event. It is only rarely 

 that there is not some slight movement. As I 

 write now, the November wind roars in the 

 chimney, there is a rushing noise among the 

 trees, rising and falling like the sound of break- 

 ing waves, and I look up to see them swaying 

 to and fro. We are accustomed to the move- 

 ment ; we are almost ready to interpret it as 

 a sign of life, as active ; whereas, of course, 

 it is only passive, involuntary. Wordsworth 

 likened the daffodils, bending to and fro in the 

 wind, to a company of dancers ; but this was a 

 poet's licence. 



Movement is always interesting. The clouds 

 speeding or leisurely moving across the sky ; 

 their shadows passing over the hills ; the cease- 

 less motion of the sea, now like rippling laughter, 

 now like firmly set purpose, now like turbulent 

 wrath; all these are endlessly interesting to 



watch, as we have already noted. So is the 

 II 



