MEN AND TREES 197 



So it chanced (our sages say) 



In the bard Amphion's day; 



But since he was lost to earth, 



None could wake our souls to mirth. 



Music, music, music bring, 



Blow on flute, and smite the string! 



We for revel fare are ripe 



We would dance, but who will pipe? 



Now the best of bards alive 



In his art so ill doth thrive, 



He might try for days together, 



And not start one plume of heather. 



Truth to say, the only Amph ionic music the trees 

 hear nowadays is the ring of the woodman's axe, 

 their only dance a short, giddy reel. 



There are spirits of the sylvan and spirits of the 

 open, natural interpreters of the woods and inter- 

 preters of the fields. The true spiritual descen- 

 dants of the Druids are a small minority. How 

 many of us, while loving trees, are also lovers of the 

 mid- forest and deep shade? If not lost in the 

 woods, we are much at a loss there. The surround- 

 ing is alien. A latent timorousness akin to super- 

 stition starts up and walks with us, advising: 



Of forests and enchantments drear, 

 Where more is meant than meets the ear. 



This under-meaning or over-meaning of the woods 

 still baffles. Their most gracious invitation and 

 salutation at a little distance are never quite made 

 good when I have stepped across their precincts. 

 Foretaste of their indifference has often kept me 

 a traveler "all around Robin Hood's barn," rather 



