The Chorus of the Forest 



and chattering squirrels are plentiful around them. 

 Hollow trees have no monetary value; they remain 

 and furnish shelter for everything desiring either 

 an upright or a prostrate home. I noticed in the 

 woods that dead trees had sufficient space to lie 

 down and decay at ease. The squirrels bark and 

 race along the logs, coons sniff and shuffle in them, 

 and the cotton-tails bound with a quick flash of 

 white from covert to covert. The jays are kept 

 busy guarding the woods. Orioles trail their bub- 

 bling song along their chosen paths of air. Flam- 

 ing cardinals chip among the bushes, and barn 

 owls enliven the night. 



At no time are the woods ever so the property 

 of any human being as in early spring they belong 

 to the children. For the small people, it seems to Frost 

 me, the flowers and birds are an especial inherit- Flowers 

 ance from the Father. The Lord knew when He 

 blanketed the earth with snowy white how children 

 would walk long distances and overturn the dead 

 leaves in their search for spring flowers, because 

 of all others they love these most, just the white 

 anemones, pink-flushed spring beauties, blue vio- 

 lets, and Dutchman's breeches. 



No bird note I ever have heard was quite so 

 sweet as the voices of the children out for a first 

 flower-hunt after the confinement of a long, cold 

 winter. Without knowing what it is they love, 

 they lift their heads, fill their lungs with the air 

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