Such leaves
as have not yet fallen hang motionless: those that are lying on the
ground are covered by the snow, and thus held fast from rustling even
were the wind to blow. But there is not the least breath--a great frost
is always quiet, profoundly quiet--and the silence is undisturbed even
by the fall of a leaf. The frost that kills them holds the leaves till
it melts, and then they drop.
The tall ash poles behind in the wood stand stark and straight, pointing
upwards, and it is possible to see for some distance between them. No
lesser bats flit to and fro outside the fence under the branches; no
larger ones pass above the tops _of_ the trees. There seems, indeed, a
total absence of life. The pheasants are at roost in the warmer covers;
and the woodpigeons are also perched--some in the detached oaks of the
hedgerows, particularly those that are thickly grown with ivy about the
upper branches. Up in the great beeches the rooks are still and silent;
sometimes the boughs are encrusted with rime about their very claws.
Leaving the oak now and skirting the wood, after a while the meadows on
the lower ground are reached; and here perhaps the slight scampering
sound of a rabbit may be heard. But as they can see and hear you so far
in the bright light and silence, they will most likely be gone before
you can get near. They are restless--very restless; first because of the
snow, and next because of the moonlight.
Pages:
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199