The wail of the forest how often I've heard — 

 The voice of the wind, the songs of the bird, 



The murmuring brooks, the sighs of the tree — 

 All filled with devotion and melodie. 



— Robert Kerr Colville. 



THAT WINTER MORNING. 



It differed from all other winter morn- 

 ings. There have been other mornings 

 as clear, as calm, as bright, with as deep 

 a coloring of sky, and dense a shade, but 

 ''as one star differeth from another star 

 in glory," so this morning differed from 

 all other mornings, for, never since God 

 said, ''Let there be light," have there 

 been two mornings just alike. I was out 

 in my woods that morning, while yet the 

 shades of night lay deep over forest and 

 meadow. The wood lay in somber 

 shade and the silence of its first long 

 slumber. There was a crispness without 

 chilliness in the air, that gave tone and 

 elasticity to muscle and brain. The fo- 

 liage of last season and many seasons 

 lay as a cover over the sleeping plants, 

 and each shrub and vine and tree was 

 m.otionless as though carved in stone. 



A silence that could be felt rested over 

 the forest; a silence Hke one feels in the 

 presence of quiet sleep. I have stood on 

 the higher summits of the mountains, far 

 above tree or shrub or animal life to give 

 evidence of a living world, with nothing 

 but illimitable space on either hand or 

 above. There was silence; dead silence ; 

 oppressive silence. But this silence of 

 the wood was different. It was a living, 

 breathing silence. I have read how 

 buildings in the near presence of a great 

 conflagration have burst into flame, 

 though never touched by spark or tongue 

 of fire, kindled by the intense heat of the 

 atmosphere. So I knew that this si- 

 lence of the woods would soon be broken 

 without the advent of any apparent dis- 

 turbing element. It needed no great 



stretch of fancy to hear the forest breath- 

 ing in its sleep. Long, deep inspirations 

 and expirations, that impressed one that 

 they were in the presence of a mighty 

 living organism. Soon shafts of light 

 flamed up in the east, and the dimness 

 in the wood gave place to shape and out- 

 line. Soon again the rising sun gilded 

 the topmost boughs of the trees with a 

 superabundance of golden light, that ran 

 down over twig and branch and trunk, 

 till the whole tree was bathed in the ra- 

 diant coloring and it lay along the ground 

 in rivulets and pools of light. In the 

 evening we see but the shadows, as the 

 declining sun casts his last beams amid 

 the trees, but on this morning it was not 

 shadows that were noticeable among the 

 trees, but shafts and beams and patches 

 of light, radiant, golden, glowing light, 

 carrying a glory through the dark reces- 

 ses of the forest. Soon I became aware 

 that I was not alone, for nearby flutter- 

 ing of wings and many exclamations of 

 forest sounds called my attention to the 

 numerous birds that had awakened and 

 thus early were seeking that wherewith 

 to break their fast. 



The chickadees, with fearless freedom, 

 were peering under pieces of bark, and 

 overturning the leaves and searching 

 around stumps and prostrate logs, seek- 

 ing for tiny morsels to appease their ever 

 present hunger. The tree sparrows in 

 bevies were flitting past to their feeding 

 ground, amid the brown and feathery 

 stalks of the goldenrod. Overhead a 

 jay was calling to his mate in a neigh- 

 boring tree, while up and down the tree 



