A MOUNTAIN FOREST
Excepting perhaps the ocean, nothing in Nature is more deceitful than a mountain forest. Last time we crossed through snow, enveloped in mist and drenched with pitiless rain. Now, no one could think evil hap could chance to the wayfarer here—so dry the forest paths, so blue the sky, so bright the scene, so soft the whispering breeze. The shadows of the great trees fall on the emerald sward, tempering the ardent sun-rays. Flickers of light dance in the thickets, and laugh at the stern solemnity of the endless groves. Bird-calls are frequent and joyous. We might be roaming in the Forest of Arden, and meet a 'stag of ten' in the glade, for any hint to the contrary. Forest memories come into our heads as we stride merrily along the winding track. Robin Hood and his merry men, Friar Tuck and Little John! Oh, fountain of chivalry! How indissolubly a forest life in the glad summer days seems bound up with deeds of high emprise; how linked with the season of love and joy, hope and pride, with a sparkle of the cup of that divinest life-essence, youthful pleasure.
'Here shall he fear no enemy,
But winter and rough weather.'
As we thus carol somewhat loudly, we are aware of a man standing motionless, regarding us, not far from a gate, humorously supposed to restrain the stock in these somewhat careless-ordered enclosures. Ha! what if he be a robber? We have been 'stuck up' ere now, and mislike the operation. He has something in his hand too. May it be a 'shooting-iron,' as the American idiom runs?
We continue to sing, however,
'Viator vacuus coram latronem.'
