The forests, too, are ready with story hid in the fastness of their
solitude, and it is a joy to think that those great pines, pointing
ever upwards, go for the most part to carry the sails of great
ships seeking afar under open sky. The forest holds other wonders
still. It seems but last night that I wandered down the road which
led to the little unheeded village where I had made my temporary
home. The warm-scented breath of the pines and the stillness of
the night wrapped me in great content; the summer lightning leapt
in a lambent arch across the east, and the stars, seen dimly
through the sombre tree crests, were outrivalled by the glow-worms
which shone in countless points of light from bank and hedge; even
two charcoal-burners, who passed with friendly greeting, had
wreathed their hats with the living flame. The tiny shifting lamps
were everywhere; pale yellow, purely white, or green as the
underside of a northern wave. By day but an ugly, repellent worm;
but darkness comes, and lo, a star alight. Nature is full for us
of seeming inconsistencies and glad surprises. The world's asleep,
say you; on your ear falls the nightingale's song and the stir of
living creatures in bush and brake. The mantle of night falls, and
all unattended the wind leaps up and scatters the clouds which veil
the constant stars; or in the hour of the great dark, dawn parts
the curtain with the long foregleam of the coming day. It is hard
to turn one's back on night with her kiss of peace for tired eye-
lids, the kiss which is not sleep but its neglected forerunner. I
made my way at last down to the vine-girt bridge asleep under the
stars and up the winding stairs of the old grey tower; and a
stone's-throw away the Rhine slipped quietly past in the midsummer
moonlight. Switzerland came in its turn, unearthly in its white
loveliness and glory of lake and sky. But perhaps the landmark
which stands out most clearly is the solitary blue gentian which I