162 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



"A mournful cry from the thicket here, 



A scream from the fields afar; 

 The chirp of a summer warbler near, 

 Of the spring-tide song a bar; 

 Then rattle and rasp; 



A groan, a laugh, 

 Till we fail to grasp 



These sounds by half 



That come from the throat of the ghostly chat, 

 An imp, if there is one, be sure of that." 



About the bases of these old oaks are many 

 flakes of bark, pieces of dead twigs, old acorn 

 shells, dried leaves, etc., all these the talus of 

 the trees themselves, shed or thrown off as re- 

 fuse, just as we shed, in minute particles, the 

 ends of nails, hair or skin. These cast off frag- 

 ments do not indicate the decline of the trees 

 but rather a healthy condition of growth. Much 

 of my firewood for cooking will they furnish. 

 The stored energy therein will I set free. Back, 

 back to nature, from a dormant to a potential 

 form, will the matter go, ready for new life, for 

 the building of new cells which again will store 

 new heat for future use. Back with the God- 

 speed of a human who believes in life, not 

 death ; in work, not play ; in the green of living 

 things, not in the gray, the brown, the sere of 

 old bark and leaves. 



Full a score of wood ticks have I plucked 

 from my body and cast aside in the two days 

 past. They must thrive in numbers in the crev- 



