The Abilene reflector. [volume] (Abilene, Kan.) 1883-1888, 1886-12-09

ing of the boughs; the trec-tOps, on
windy dav, give forth unearthly
means. have found the cause of a
recurrent and perplexing cry in rude
| instrument formed by the crossing of
two branches, of which the one sawed
upon the other like a violin bow drawn
across a string. Both bow and string,
stout and tough of fiber, were worn
and polished by long practice of that
solitary note. Even the lightest wood
has its hushed twitterings. its vanish
ings and inexplicable rustlings.
The copse- depths into little noises start
! remember as a child being made
curious, then awcd, and gradually
frightened by low sound resembling a
gentle. regular breathing, which pro-
ceelcd from under an alder-bush on
the edge of swampy thicket. | drew
nearer and peeped in. The only live
thing visible was brown thrush, who,
indeed. was skulking away. a5if caught
in the act; but knew that was only
his usual conscious, embarrassed air,
and refused to suspect HIM of any con-
nection with the disturbance. No
other cUlprit appeared, and
vet the even respratiOns cOntin-
ued, till my courage, Ike that of
Bob Acres, OoZed away, and fled, not
from an apparation, but from a vibra-
ton.
More appalling than any sound is the
silence and loneSomeneSs of the deep
forest. One is haunted by the antiquity
which is symboled IN long moss boards,
and which lies visible ali around in huge
dCcaying trees, the unburied ancestors
of the mOnarchS who are still standing
strong in their girth of rings. 1t sug-
gests the Pal8OZoic era and the forma-
ton of coal to see those great trunks.
hewn down by time and tempest, half
Sunken in the earth, and already per-
haps many seasons on in the existence
which is theirs after death. Covered
with MOSES and bright fungi, they
seem st II half sentient and more
wrought upon by age than the coal
| itself, which has forgotten and become
inorganic so long ago that years do
not count. Among those aged gen.
erations the mountain climber is an
anarchronism as well as an intruder,
and is confronted at every step by the
question what he doth there. Time has
put obstacles in his way; to make any
! progress, he must Chamber over logs,
tack around powders, and avoid inn
pcnctrable places. There silence reigns,
with a break now and then, which
/ leaves it 10 settle again deeper than
! before. Even so busy and cheerful 4
sound as the woodpecker's hammer
divides and intens:fies the stiffness with
a certain solemnity.
In ancient DAYS of superstition the
| croaking of raven forebodcd ill-hap.
If there were an index expurgatory of
New England birds, the Jay, for all his
! heavenly Dlumage, would have to be
placed in it. There are few bird notes
more weird than that high scream of
! his, heard in the autumn across the
brown fields or through the arches of
the pine grove. 1t rings through all
the aislcS, making the quietude like 4
hush of apprehension.
There are moments when. on entering
| the woods, one seems to have broken III
upon some high festivity of Nature. A
few hours before, in the same spot, life
was suspended: one could walk from
end to end of the wood path and hear
not breath, detect no movement save
of nOiSeleSs insects or a little leaf-hued
! frog, in complexion like his carpet.
! That was at the noOn-t' de solsticc, when
a rose-colored light filtered through
broad leaves, and one could fancy siestas
in progress behind the jalOus cs OF
green. But later in the day what group
ingS and activities! Squirrels start and
/ scuttle of, thruShes beat a hasty retreat
/ through the under brush, cartridges
spring up with sudden rustic of fir CHIT
and Indignation, and 90 whirring away
! in loud protest. You have Sturbed
! the wood-godS at their feast, the fairies
at a gathering. and your sense of intru-
son IS stronger than when you walked
| through the empty halls while they slept.
There IS something in these sylvan scat
tcrings which Sugg ,stS almost irresisti-
bly, the breaking-up of a fairy dance or
a flight of shy nymphS In early morn
| inc such Interruptions give hints of a
whole night OF revelry, and tempt Us to
believe a little in 1.-THE good people,"
and half regret thc'r Punishment from
power. The pale nympIas dancing at
! dawn, in 4 landscape Of COrot' s-are
they not formed from the dawn itself,
from the first shafts ana glimmering Of
light on the forests edge? And may not
myths have been evolved in the same
manner?
But of all imaginat onS That have peo-
pied the woods. Shakespeare has most
cNqUisitclv fitted his creations into their
/ shadows and sun-iiecks. Their green
gladcs and hooks. Mr.. Burroughs, in
one OF his delightful papers on the nat
ural history of the poets, has paid trb-
ute to the wonderful accuracy of Shak-
speare's incidental Characterization of
BIRDS and plants. But beyond this init
mate knowledge of herb and songster
and creeping thing, there is in his out
door comedies breadth of grecnerv, a
sense of the manifold harmonies andr
20 c of the forest, Consciousness of its
many tints and meanings The oaks
spread lovingly over Rosalind and the
flowers grow about Perdita. Their
speech does not disturb the quiet. nor
ring false among the boughS. They Jest
and love; they were born in courts and
must return thither; yet they belong to
the greenwood, and we are never quite
reconciled to see ne them on the Stage
To find Shakespeare face to face, how
ever, with the woods and the sky turn
to The Tempest have always had
f,Y,.x- tla+ -, +h;e ,>Ia,- ~ ~ +bo Conno+s