It began to creep
over him. He kept near to the comforting presence of the boy, aware in
quite a novel way of the Presence of the Wood. This very ordinary
wood, without claim to particular notice, much less to a notice-board,
changed his normal feelings by arresting their customary flow. An
unusual sensation replaced what he meant to feel, expected to feel. He
was aware of strangeness. He felt included in the purpose of a crowd
of growing trees. "But it's just a common little wood," he assured
himself, realising as he said it that both adjectives were wrong. For
nothing left to itself is ever common, and as for "little"--well, it
had suddenly become enormous.
Outside, in what was called the big world, things were going on with
frantic hurry and change, but in here the leisured calm was huge,
gigantic, so much so that the other dwindled into a kind of lost
remoteness. "Smothered by depth and distance," he could almost forget
it altogether. Out there nations were at war, republics fighting,
empires tottering to ruin; great-hearted ladies were burning furniture
and stabbing lovely pictures (not their own) to prove themselves
intelligent enough to vote; and gallant gentlemen were flying across
the Alps and hunting for the top and bottom of the earth instead of
hurrying to help them.
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