MEMOIRS OF A WOODLAND, 



I. How often, amid the calm and 

 storm of these after years, do memories 

 of a famihar woodland come hurrying 

 back as though they had tarried too long 

 in the past! Even now, in the twi- 

 light's hush, I recall a forest delightsome 

 and dreamy — a youthful Eden. Nor does 

 its idyllic charm suffer through the per- 

 spective of years. Grim experience has 

 robbed full many a halcyon dream^ of 

 its golden glamor, but the ' treasures of 

 sweet Wynnedam Wood still defy the 

 touch of the ruthless plunderer. 



It was only yesterday that a cooling, 

 fragrant breath swept up the long chan- 

 nel of the past to strengthen me against 

 a fretful, feverish moment in life's little 

 Passion Ray. 



II. In the balmy spring, when indo- 

 lence and poesy raced like the Tortoise 

 and the Hare through my veins, there 

 were ever in Wynnedam Wood soft, 

 grassy plots upon which to recline, and 

 birds to pipe the air brimful of melody — 

 vibrant, vivifying notes to stir one's fancy 

 and to rest one's flesh. 



Ah, the wild beauty of Wynnedam: in 

 those days! The delicate emerald of its 

 budding trees, the snowy whiteness of 

 its dog- wood blossoms, the lustrous 

 sparkle of its babbling, bubbling brooks ! 

 There the wild lily rivaled Solomon's 

 glory and the violet vied with heaven's 

 own blue. Amidst the clambering honey- 

 suckle the mocking-bird made her nest, 

 and thenceforth the forest was drunk with 

 sweetness and with song. 



III. When summer came, with swel- 

 tering heat vibrating over the fields and 

 stifling clouds of dust rolled behind the 

 traveler on highway and byway, it was 

 always pleasant in Wynnedam Wood. 

 Every wandering breeze seemed to 

 gather there. Truant tramps of the air, 

 they loitered in the shade. 



Beneath the shade of some mighty 

 tree, in a place moss-lined and flower- 

 crowned, one could stretch himself out 



in long, sweet siestas. And if one were 

 afflicted with insomnia there were never 

 wanting insects to drum the air into 

 drowsy cadences (to swim, as it were, in 

 sultry seas of melancholy monotony), 

 trees to nod, streams to purl, breezes to 

 purr like contented cats, till one went 

 to sleep of necessity. 



Sweet indeed those midsummer day- 

 dreams — those loop-holes from driveling 

 toil ! 



IV. After the green the gold : autumn 

 with a dreary, deathly windfall. Weird 

 beauty lurked then in Wynnedam — ave- 

 nues of amber and scarlet; fantasies of 

 light and shade. 



Every wind winnowed the yellow har- 

 vest, whirling and twirling it to and fro. 

 The ripened nuts fell from their open 

 casements and rolled among the leaves. 

 Squirrels hastened about their daily task 

 of gathering in store, for the earnest of 

 the coming winter was in the air. 



At eventide the autumn forest excelled 

 the paintings of the masters. The tints 

 of the Divine Artist shone upon every 

 leaf or melted into delightful contrast 

 with the hazel-hued background. Be- 

 neath the mellow afterglow every trunk 

 and twig was agleam with purple and 

 gold. Upon the threadlike rivulets long, 

 slender arrows of ruby shot forth, till 

 innumerable shadowy fingers gathered 

 them, one by one, into the quivers of 

 night. 



V. Winter came like a blustering buc- 

 caneer to Wynnedam Wood, fairly gal- 

 loping down from the north, and send- 

 ing his stinging whipcords to the heart 

 of every shuddering tree. Then the wood 

 was a scene to make one sad. Black 

 and cheerless it stood, hugging a few 

 frayed leaves within its ragged arms. 

 And when the cold gray sky shone, red- 

 rimmed, through the naked, sornber trees 

 it was a scene to make one shiver, and 

 seek the solace of a glowing, crackling 

 oak wood fire. 



