THE ROAD TO SPRING 
5 
twisted maze of gnarled trunk and infinite intricacies of 
twig and branch—although it reaches out to fancies of 
an older time, the misty age of myth and legend, mur¬ 
muring “ Broceliande ” to you, even as grey willows will 
whisper “ Avalon ”— the hawthorn, somehow, wears 
more the aspect of a familiar. While these have their 
distinct and separate associations, real or imagined, it is 
the beech that stands for to-day and yesterday and for 
all time. Clothed with translucent leafage, or stripped, 
as now, in suave, silvery loveliness, it grows as a gracious 
monument to the memory of the old beliefs. To this 
day I find it no easy matter in the depths of a beech 
wood to disbelieve in Dryads. 
All trees have each their proper charm : the orchard- 
trees are sweet honest country wenches in youth, and 
bent but still comely and hearty gammers in old age; 
the silver birch is ever a dainty ingenue ; the cedar a very 
noble gentleman, somewhat of a Don Quixote; but the 
beech is the incomparable lady, the beautiful princess 
who never grows old, equally beautiful with or without 
her green mantle of leaves, fair alike in winter and in 
summer. 
As I pass through the little belt of wilderness that is 
all our walled-in space allows for absolute liberty, I 
surprise many a small secret of the little folk who are 
wont to pitch their tents there in due season. Secrets 
of Polichinelle, to-day, but none the less agreeable to me. 
I like it best for the birds to keep their own counsel 
while there is need ; I would not wittingly betray them, 
but one never knows. In the pride of my heart, and 
the expansiveness bred by good company I might blab— 
