the dumb trees. For the multitudes of sedges, rushes, canes, and reeds
were the appropriate lyre of the cold. On them the nimble winds played
their dry music. They were part of the winter. It looked through them
and spoke through them. They were spears and javelins in array to the
sound of the drums of the north.

The winter takes fuller possession of these things than of those that
stand solid. The sedges whistle his tune. They let the colour of his
light look through--low-flying arrows and bright bayonets of winter day.

The multitudes of all reeds and rushes grow out of bounds. They belong
to the margins of lands, the space between the farms and the river,
beyond the pastures, and where the marsh in flower becomes perilous
footing for the cattle. They are the fringe of the low lands, the sign
of streams. They grow tall between you and the near horizon of flat
lands. They etch their sharp lines upon the sky; and near them grow
flowers of stature, including the lofty yellow lily.

Our green country is the better for the grey, soft, cloudy darkness of
the sedge, and our full landscape is the better for the distinction of
its points, its needles, and its resolute right lines.

Ours is a summer full of voices, and therefore it does not so need the
sound of rushes; but they are most sensitive to the stealthy breezes, and
betray the passing of a wind that even the tree-tops knew not of.
Sometimes it is a breeze unfelt, but the stiff sedges whisper it along a
mile of marsh. To the strong wind they bend, showing the silver of their
sombre little tassels as fish show the silver of their sides turning in
the pathless sea. They are unanimous. A field of tall flowers tosses
many ways in one warm gale, like the many lovers of a poet who have a