Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce their way; Takes through their golden mist his radiant flight; MEN AND TREES* BY EDITH M. THOMAS SOME time since, on an enchanted summer afternoon, I heard the woods utter the following complaint, in tones half whisper, half musical recitative (I do not think I could have been asleep): We that sway the forest realm, Oak and chestnut, beech and elm, We shall hear a master call us, When our troops shall break their trance He should lead us up and down, Drunk with joy from root to crown, Through the valley, over hill, Servants unto music's will; Leaf and nut the earth bestrewing, In the trembling air and ground! * By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co, So it chanced (our sages say) None could wake our souls to mirth. Blow on flute, and smite the string! We would dance, but who will pipe? In his art so ill doth thrive, He might try for days together, And not start one plume of heather. Truth to say, the only Amphionic music the trees hear nowadays is the ring of the woodman's axe, their only dance a short, giddy reel. There are spirits of the sylvan and spirits of the open, natural interpreters of the woods and interpreters of the fields. The true spiritual descendants of the Druids are a small minority. How many of us, while loving trees, are also lovers of the mid-forest and deep shade? If not lost in the woods, we are much at a loss there. The surrounding is alien. A latent timorousness akin to superstition starts up and walks with us, advising: Of forests and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. This under-meaning or over-meaning of the woods still baffles. Their most gracious invitation and salutation at a little distance are never quite made good when I have stepped across their precincts. Foretaste of their indifference has often kept me a traveler "all around Robin Hood's barn," rather than through it. Or is it that, not greatly fond of interiors (of woodland interiors, even), I prefer to stand or sit in the strong-pillared portico, and gaze thence far into the mysterious presence-filled sanctuary? Were I within, the preached word would but puzzle my child-like capacity. Such impression I have of the woods in full leaf, roofed over and curtained round. In winter, in early spring, or in late autumn, when the sky's good light keeps me in countenance, my wood-wit is less dull. Looking sunward through these long aisles, I see the dead leaves repeatedly lifted on the awakening wind. The ground itself seems to acquire motion from their fluctuations, and appears now rising, now subsiding, as the wind comes or goes. Are the leaves surely dead? Near by they have a cautionary speech all their own, a continuous "hist" and "sh" sounds distinct from the sonorous wind-march through the tree-tops. Soul of the forest and of all sylvan summers gone, set free by the blown ripe leaves — I flush it, and follow it through the shrill woods! THE WAYSIDE INNAN APPLE TREE FROM THE GERMAN I HALTED at a pleasant inn, As I my way was wending A golden apple was the sign, From knotty bough depending. Mine host it was an apple tree He smilingly received me, And spread his sweetest, choicest fruit Full many a little feathered guest Came through his branches springing; Beneath his shade I laid me down, And when I rose and would have paid He only shook his lofty head FOREST HYMN BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them—ere he framed The lofty vault to gather and roll back The sound of anthems in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Ah! why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn, thrice happy if it find Father, Thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns: Thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose All these fair ranks of trees. They in Thy sun Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy breeze, And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow, |