THE FOREST 181 



are sweet and pleasant. The elms gather together, 

 rubbing their branches in the gale till the bark is worn 

 off and the boughs die; the shadow is deep under 

 them, and moist, favorable to rank grass and coarse 

 mushrooms. Beneath the ashes, after the first 

 frost, the air is full of the bitterness of their blackened 

 leaves, which have all come down at once. By 

 the beeches there is little underwood, and the hollows 

 are filled ankle-deep with their leaves. From the 

 pines comes a fragrant odor, and thus the character 

 of each group dominates the surrounding ground. 

 The shade is too much for many flowers, which 

 prefer the nooks of hedgerows. If there is no 

 scope for the use of "express" rifles, this southern 

 forest really is a forest and not an open hillside. 

 It is a forest of trees, and there are no woodlands,, 

 so beautiful and enjoyable as these, where it is 

 possible to be lost a while without fear of serious 

 consequences; where you can walk without stepping 

 up to the waist in a decayed tree-trunk, or flounder- 

 ing in a bog; where neither venomous snake nor 

 torturing mosquito causes constant apprehensions 

 and constant irritation. To the eye there is noth- 

 ing but beauty; to the imagination pleasant pageants 

 of old time; to the ear the soothing cadence of the 

 leaves as the gentle breeze goes over. The beeches 

 rear their Gothic architecture; the oaks are planted 

 firm like castles, unassailable. Quick squirrels 

 climb and dart hither and thither, deer cross the 



