362 VOICES FROM THE WOODLANDS. 



And thus, as sang the poet, my leaves are wonderfully 

 constructed for the protection of all wayfaring birds; 

 honest robin and Jenny wren are here, with many of their 

 relatives, and among them are several fieldfares, lately 

 arrived from the north, and now on their way towards the 

 sheltered parts of Britain. 



The eye of him who looks across the dazzling surface 

 sees in me a wayside tree, standing on a rugged bank, 

 the only living object that meets his view. No hand 

 has traced an inscription on my bark, but characters 

 are impressed thereon which tell of wisdom and bene- 

 ficence. The snow is deep, and the frost exceeding 

 hard; a keen east wind is sweeping across the ridge 

 whereon I stand, yet life is sustained within me; the 

 sharp frost, which benumbs everything else, does not affect 

 my juices, they still freely circulate, imparting greenness 

 to my leaves and brilliancy to my bright scarlet berries. 



At least forty or fifty different varieties are derived from 

 us. Patriarchal trees are we, reckoning among our descend- 



