Its sleepliness is all pretence,
With trunks and twigs and foliage dense
It's watching you, alert, intense,
It's furious; it's peering.
"Upon the darkening paths below,
Whichever way you try to go
You'll meet with strange resistance.
So climb a tree and wave your hand,
The birds will see and understand,
And _may_ bring you assistance.
Avoid the centre,
If you enter,
For once you're there
You--disappear!
Smothered by depth and distance!"
Tim listened without a sign of interest. Every one has his
peculiarity, he supposed, and, provided his companion did not dance as
well as sing, it was all right. The noise was unnecessary, perhaps,
still--the sound of a human voice was not without its charm. The house
was a very long way off; the gardeners never came this way. A wood
_was_ a mysterious place! "Is that all?" he asked--but whether glad or
sorry, no man could possibly have told.
"For the present," came the reply, and the sound of both their voices
fell a little dead, muffled by the density of the undergrowth. "Are we
going right?"
"There'll be a sign," Tim explained again. And the way he said it, the
air of positive belief in tone and manner, stung the man's
consciousness with a thrill of genuine adventure.
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