essly in the soft leaf mould of the forest floor. Out
again, and through the edge of a cornfield where the broad, wavy ribbon
leaves squeaked as we thrust them aside, as only corn leaves can squeak.
If we had not been wet already, this would have finished us. There is
nothing any wetter than a wet cornfield.

On over the open pastures, with a grassy swamp at the bottom. We tramped
carelessly through it, not even looking for tussocks, and the water
sucked merrily in and out of our shoes. Into brush once more--thick
hazel and scrub oak; then down a slope, and we were in the hemlock
ravine--a wonderful bit of tall woods, dark-shadowed, solemn, hardly
changed by the rain, only perhaps a thought darker and stiller, with
deeper blue depths of hazy distance between the straight black trunks.
At the bottom a brook with dark pools lying beneath mossy rock ledges,
or swirling under great hemlock roots, little waterfalls, and shallow
rapids over smooth-worn rock faces. It is a wonderful place, a place for
a German fairy tale.

The woods were empty--in a sense, yes. Except for the lizards, the
animals run to cover during the rain; woodchucks, rabbits, squirrels,
are tucked away somewhere out of sight and sound. Bird notes are hushed;
the birds, lurking close-reefed under the lee of the big branches or the
heavy foliage, or at the heart of the cedar trees, make no sign as we
pass.

Empty, yet not lonely. When the sun is out and the sky is high and
bright, one feels that the world is a large place, belonging to many
creatures. But when the sky shuts down and the world is close-wrapped in
rain and drifting mist, it seems to grow smaller and more intimate.
Instead of feeling the multitudinousness of the life of woods and
fields, one feels its unity. We are brought together in the bonds of the
rain--we and all the hidden creatures--we seem all in one room together.

Thus swept into the unity of a dominating mood, the woods sometimes gain
a voice of their own. I heard it first on a stormy night when I was
walking along the wood road to meet Jonathan. It was a night of wind and
rain and blackness--blackness so dense that it seemed a real thing,
pressing against my eyes, so complete that at the fork in the roads I
had to feel with my hand for the wheel ruts in order to choose the right
one. As I grew accustomed to the swish of the rain in my face and the
hoarse breath of the wind about my ears I became aware of another
sound--a backgro