510 



THE NATURE BOOK 



weather is stagnant weather, when the 

 air is thick with fog, and the meadow- 

 turf oozes beneath the foot, when no 

 sound of wind is heard in the trees, and 

 the wayfarer's soul is vexed with the 

 squalor of the mud ; when " neither sun 

 nor stars for many days appear"; and 



I'iiuto^rapn by j, li, Poweii 



'THE REPOSE OF NATURE." 



the repose of Nature suggests the lethargy 

 of disease, rather than the calm of health- 

 ful sleep. 



" And now men see not the bright light 

 that is in the clouds," complains an old 

 writer, doubtless of just such weather ; but, 

 he tell us, " the wind passeth and cleanseth 

 them." Let only the mighty current 

 of the south-west begin to flow, and the 

 world is transformed ; the flat cloud 

 ceiling is broken up into life and form and 

 colour, torn flying banners upon a field 

 of blue ; or if the canopy remain un- 

 broken, still the clouds are defined, and 

 as they sweep across the sky, wave after 

 wave in endless procession, their sombre. 



ever-changing hues and fantastic out- 

 lines seem to suggest a series of world 

 pictures. Pictures of all things that are 

 ancient and grey and remote ; pale re- 

 flections of scenes over which their flight 

 has carried them ; caverns and gorges 

 of bare mountain sides ; rocky coasts 

 and forgotten watch towers ; 

 stretches of desert sand, 

 strewn with desolation of 

 ruined cities ; the restless, 

 ceaseless flow of ocean waves, 

 and the shadow of mighty 

 forests. 



The rain forms into steeply 

 slanting columns which hurry 

 across the scene, keeping pace 

 with the clouds, and all the 

 trees strain at their moorings 

 and strive to follow ; earth, 

 air and water in flight, a 

 world passing away. 



Passing away to the sound 

 of a music worthy to be the 

 dirge of an old world, or the 

 herald of a new. The sound 

 of the wind in the forest- 

 sonorous as thunder or the 

 noise of raging breakers, and 

 yet speaking to the spirit 

 with the clearness of a still 

 small voice : of all the sum- 

 monings of Nature surely that 

 which brings us nearest to her 

 \'cry presence ; a voice which 

 shakes the veil that for ever 

 hides the inner mysteries ; 

 that tells us, could we but 

 hear aright, of things "we 

 have not seen nor shall see." 

 We know the atmosphere to be the 

 instrument as well as the vehicle of sound, 

 but usually the air is the passi\'e agent : 

 sounds made by concussion, vibration 

 and the like, are cast into it as a pebble 

 is thrown into water ; but this wood 

 music is of the wind's own making ; the 

 forest, a vast mute harp, stretches the 

 ten thousand strings of its branches, wait- 

 ing for the touch of the minstrel, and then 

 away in the dark south-west the eager 

 wind arises, and like some Orpheus return- 

 ing to his lyre, sweeps the strings, and 

 fills earth and sky with music. 



For the fuU enjoyment of this phase 

 of winter one needs to be in a land both 



