The Glenwood post., 1909-10-02

Either the little boys of France are
of superhuman virtue or they get filled
to repletion before reaching the high
way. Coming from the north, the sun
ny road runs abruptly into the for
est and is compelled to curve among
the rocky ridges. Glades branch off to
right and left. losing themselves in
the green twilight distance. and ex,
cept for the murmuring of the leaves
utter silence reigns. Here and there
the beeches give way to thickets of
acacia and hornbeam, and sometimes
the tangle is broken by group of
pines rising from the needle-strewn
soil
There is an atmosphere of legendry
about this ancient forest. 1t is not
difficult to picture medieval knights
or richly-caparisoned horses moving
in glittering procession between the
smooth trunks of the beeches, or
merlin chanting incantations and
weaving spells among the crags above
them. None of the trees is very big
or gnarled, and yet the forest has
suggestion of vast age that is al
most terrible. Before the Huns swept
across France to their own discom-
future, these woods were old beyond
telling. In the twelfth century they
held ruined tower within their green
walls. of which the unwritten history
was utterly lost, and the ghostly men,
cries of all old Frances sorrows seem
to have gathered in their rocky
depths.
1t is relief to turn under the
acacia and plunge among fallen trunks
and rank herbage towards lighter
spot, where open sky can be seen. A
grass-grown mound reveals itself as
the remains Of wall of rough-hewn
stones, and beyond it lies a clearing
bearing reassuring traces of human
ity. crop OF green maize Is wav-
ing luxuriantly in the breeze. Further
on are fruit trees-almonds full of
green nuts. standard peaches. apples.
some with heavily-burdened boughs
weighed down almost to earth, others
clothed with fiuttering gray moss; and
only green with clumps of mistletoe;
and under these old trees the grass
Is hidden in shimmerins cloud of
harebells. Presently the Joy of har-
vest will even penetrate the sadness
of the forest. So when the sun has
set, and twilight is fast creeping over
the vast plain. the village appears
once more. The struggling street is
full of color-even after the glow of
harvest fields. Old tiled roofs splashed
with orange lichens rise against the
darkened forest Every step calls
forth an exquisite picture. Rustic
homes nestle among trees, walled gar
dens of dreamy seclusion, leafy lanes
only leading to the deeper LEAKAGE of
the forest. Nothing jarring. nothing
new; only little village of old France
"a gem of exquisite simplicity set in
the pure gold of the corn. At little
tables in the inn courtyard people are
dining or playing cards in the leisure
ly way that obtains in the country,
while horde of mongrel dogs, vary
ing from an atom family suggestive of
griffon to sedate monster obvious
ly claiming relationship to mastiff.
wander casually In and out among the
tables and solicit scraps with eloquent
eyes or gently insistent paws
Above the clatter of wooden soles
and chatter of homeward-wending har.
vest-folk there arises rumble of
heavy wheels. Up the street comes a
wagon piled high with sheaves, and
drawn by two cream-colored oxen
muzzied and bowing low beneath =
ponderous wooden yoke.
o. X. MOORE.