2 9 o THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



hear his stammered cough from a point deeper in the 

 wood. A fallen log gleams, perhaps with luminous 

 fungus. No ; there are two obvious round eyes, 

 which waver for a moment, as though some one swung 

 a lantern with two holes, then spring to the ground 

 and vanish. Some cottage cat out after a wood- 

 mouse or less legitimate prey. Or, perhaps, she be- 

 longs to the charcoal-burners, the incense from whose 

 smoking mound has long floated through the wood. 

 We expected to find the mound itself, with its 

 writhing smoke-serpents occasionally breaking out 

 into dull flames. But we have to confess that we 

 have somehow lost our way in the wood. The 

 journey is far from familiar, and even the landmarks 

 that might be known by day are obliterated or, worse 

 still, so it seems, altered into something else. There 

 is a reflection of the grey sky below us on the right. 

 It may be the eye of a pond far away, or a sheet of 

 chalk quite near. We cannot even tell whether this 

 at our feet is a mere path or a deep trench with mud 

 and water in it. When we stoop and grope it seems 

 as though the elves had suddenly changed a yawning 

 ditch into firm ground. In a minute some other 

 equally ludicrous problem presents itself. We creep 

 from one perplexity to another like a fox in the 

 midst of traps. 



Again it is some other sense than eyesight that 

 tells us where we are. A louder throbbing than that 

 of the pulse proclaims a motor-car, and, ergo, the 

 high-road in a direction many points farther to the 

 north than we had thought. Swinging to the left we 

 get the smell of water, and the eyes seem to feel 

 rather than see the thinness of timber that signifies 



