THE BEECH WOODS 



now silvery in the shade, floated in the 

 air or hung suspended from the drying 

 tassels of the corn, softly illuminating 

 the contented field with a fairy-like 

 glamour. 



Dimly discernible in the smoky haze 

 that veiled its chequered slopes, the 

 long ridge to the north appeared like 

 an Autumn apparition fading away in 

 the murky distance. Here the creek had 

 its source and began its journey far 

 up the slope, timidly winding its course 

 through fields and woodland swales 

 until it entered the canopied shade of 

 the Beech Woods. Here, too, in days 

 gone by the Redman pitched his tepee, 

 hunting these forest trails and sending 

 up his smoke signals that called a 

 council of the tribes together or 

 warned them of approaching danger. 

 And down in the woodlands of the 

 plain, to East, to South and West, and 

 from the forest of the beeches rose the 

 answering signals, while far away the 

 eternal mists of the mighty Niagara 

 wreathed upward, a constant token of 

 the Great Father, Getchie Manitou. 



Autumn had come again to the 

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