TSe Lay of the Band 
uplift, while in the very narrowest of the paths of 
the woods. 
It was in the latter end of December, upon a 
gloomy day that was heavy with the oppression of 
a coming storm. In the heart of the maple swamp all 
was still and cold and dead. Suddenly, as out of a 
tomb, I heard the small, thin cry of a tiny tree frog. 
And how small and thin it sounded in the vast 
silences of that winter swamp! And yet how clear 
and ringing! A thrill of life tingling out through 
the numb, nerveless body of the woods that has ever 
since made a dead day for me impossible. 
That was an inspiration. I learned something, 
something deep and beautiful. Had I been Burns or 
Wordsworth I should have written a poem to Hyla. 
All prose as I am, I was, nevertheless, so quickened 
by that brave little voice as to write : — 
The fields are bleak, the forests bare, 
The swirling snowflakes fall 
About the trees a winding-sheet, 
Across the fields a pall. 
A wide, dead waste, and leaden sky, 
Wild winds, and dark and cold! 
The river’s tongue is frozen thick, 
With life’s sweet tale half told. 
64 
