The Chorus of the Forest 



was the music of my own heart over some won- 

 drous flower or landscape picture, or stirred to join 

 in the chorus around me. The trees were large 

 wind-harps, the trunks the framework, the branches 

 the strings. These trunks always were wrapped in 

 gray, but with each tree a differing shade. There 

 were brown-gray, green-gray, blue-gray, dark- 

 gray, light-gray, every imaginable gray, and many 

 of them so vine-entwined and lichen-decorated it 

 was difficult to tell exactly what color they were. 

 The hickory was the tatterdemalion; no other 

 tree was so rough and ragged in its covering. 

 Oak, elm, walnut, and ash, while deeply indented 

 with the breaks of growth, had more even surface. 

 The poplar, birch, and sycamore had the smooth- 

 est bark and showed the most color. The tall, 

 straight birch did gleam "like silver," but to me 

 the sj r camore was more beautiful. The largest 

 were of amazing size, whole branches a cream-white 

 with big patches of green, and the rough bark of 

 the trunks was a dirty yellow-gray. These trees 

 always show most color in winter, but I do not 

 know whether they really are brighter then, or 

 whether the absence of the green leaves makes 

 them appear so. Anywhere near the river the 

 trees grew larger, and their uplifted branches 

 caught the air and made louder music, w r hile the 

 unceasing song of the water played a minor accom- 

 paniment. These big wind-harps were standing 

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