The Chorus of the Forest 



have colored, and most of them fallen, before 

 these birds migrate. They remain with us, as the 

 larks, until frost and cold drive them away. After 

 the young become self-supporting the family 

 perches among the branches of a big tree for the 

 night. This is cold, unattractive business by No- 

 vember, for there is little shelter on any tree save 

 among the dry leaves of oaks and beeches. 



There is a smaller tree that once deceived me 

 into the belief that it was clinging to its dead 

 leaves as do its larger fellows, but examination The Hop- 

 proved that it was loaded with dry seed clusters. TreeDance 

 It was a hop tree, and the seeds were very similar 

 to those of the slippery elm. They are almost 

 round in shape, flat, a small oval seed in the center, 

 a thin dry rim around it, and a twig bears from 

 forty to sixty in one cluster. Each seed hangs 

 from a tough, slender stem. When the wind blows 

 the hop tree is the greatest musician of the woods. 

 But there is no sobbing, no wailing, no sadness in 

 its notes. It plays a happy, clipping dance tune. 

 From every side the wind catches the flat seed sur- 

 faces and sets them shaking with an enlivening 

 rustle, and when millions of them strike together, 

 all the pixies, gnomes, and fairies come trooping 

 to the hall of the woods and begin wildly dancing 

 as the hop tree shakes its castanets. 



Before you know it you come to the end of 

 the woods. When we stop to think, the earth as 

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