THE BEECH WOODS 



creek and invested with all the beauties 

 of nature, might have been a bit of 

 Arcady transplanted in these woods. 



Down in the little forests where the 

 whip trees grow in clumps, the wood 

 folk have their paths, highways on the 

 forest floor. Here their trails lead 

 through miniature aisles, past the 

 huge trunks of larger trees — mile- 

 posts of their journeys, where they 

 travel to their foraging ground or wan- 

 der in their endless quests. Here the 

 partridge cautiously leads her brood 

 through the chequered dimness of the 

 beech knoll, past the old pine stump 

 to where, in the spring, her mate thril- 

 led her kindred with his drumming. 



The woodchuck digs fresh tunnels 

 and heaps the red earth beside his den, 

 a mound on which to watch and rest 

 in the sun. He is a wise little fellow, 

 for he has chosen a spot where the sun 

 reaches down for many hours a day, 

 and yet the woods are thick about him. 

 After his long winter's sleep he relaxes 

 in the comforting warmth and grows 

 fat. 



The cottontail and the wood mice 

 48 



