THE WOODS. 





14 THE woods were made for the hunters of dreams, 



The brooks for the fishers of song ; 

 To the hunters who hunt for the guiiless game 



The streams and the woods belong. 

 There are thoughts that moan from the soul of the pine 



And thoughts in a flower-bell curled ; 

 And the thoughts that are blown with the scent of the fern 



Are as new and as old as the world." FOBS. 



ON first impression one might say that there 

 are no woods worth consideration on the 

 Molega Road. It is quite true that there are no 

 trees desirable for lumber or ship-timber ; there 

 are no dusky forest-aisles, but for all this lack- 

 ing there are woods crowded with objects of 

 interest, and replete with subtle beauty. An 

 acquaintance of Turner, the great landscape 

 painter, once stood by him while he sketched a 

 scene. As he proceeded to complete the work 

 his companion remarked, 



" But, Mr. Turner, I do not see in the land- 

 scape the beauty you have put in your picture." 



" Don't you wish you could see it ? " was the 

 artist's reply. 



