30 VOICES FROM THE WOODLANDS. 



and the need that exists for them, and how mysteriously 

 they are connected, not only with rocks and soils, but 

 with every wandering sunbeam, wind, or shower, that visits 

 the place whereon they grow. 



And when the symphony of mingled voices ceased, first 

 one, and then another, took up the wondrous tale. Hearken, 

 said the majestic crowned prince of English ferns, the 

 flowering-fern or bracken, bearing his rich brown seeds in 

 spikes, resembling sceptres. My favourite haunt is Loch 

 Tyne, with its clustering islands and wide expanse of water, 

 growing, according to my mood, either erect and rigid, or 

 else gracefully bending above the current, and forming a 

 shelter for the timid coot, which gazes on the passer-by 

 from beneath my canopy. Know you that active, lead- 

 coloured bird, with her quick, glancing eye, skimming rapidly 

 upon the surface of the water, and building her nest among 

 the rushes ? A home-loving bird is she, preferring her native 

 streams to any other, and, when her young are hatched, 

 leading them among the labyrinths formed by my drooping 



