CHAPTER V.
THE FOREST WORLD.
. . . . . . . the forest world, its wealth of life,
Its jostling, crowding, thrusting, struggling race,
Creeper with creeper, bush with bush at strife,
Warring and wrestling for a breathing space;
Below, a realm with tangled rankness rife,
Aloft, tree-columns, shafts of stateliest grace.
The bad weather had spent itself, and as we got ready early next morning, a cloudless sky above the snow-peaks betokened a glorious day. Goodbyes were said, and we fared forth once more down the Main South Road. It made a brave show with wide, cleared margins for a couple of miles or so, then deserted us in a river-bed, and when we picked it up again, it had become a pack track. This very soon dwindled to a narrow footpath, winding into the heart of the hills. The sun slanted down through the great trees over head:
“Their forest raiment . . . . . . from crown to feet that clothed them royally,
Shielding their mysteries from the glare of day.”
Here, we were in a world untouched by man—save for that narrow, winding track—where the very birds seemed scarce to heed our presence, and the big bush-pigeons sat and looked at us from the miro trees—too lazy to fly away. The very loneliness but added to the wondrous,
