This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
By Georg Ebers
Summer wore away; the oats in the forest were garnered and the vintagehad begun in the vine-lands. It was a right glorious sunny day; and ifyou ask me at which time of the year forest life is the sweeter, whetherin Springtide or in Autumn, I could scarce say.
Aye, it is fair indeed in the woods when Spring comes gaily in. Springis the very Saviour, as it were, of all the numberless folk, great andsmall, which grow green and blossom there, wherefore the forest holdsfestival for his birthday and cradle feast as is but fitting! The fir-tree lights up brighter tips to its boughs, as children do with tapers atChristmastide. Then comes the largesse. It lasts much more than oneevening, and the gifts bestowed on all are without number, and bright andvarious indeed to behold. As a father's tinkling bell brings thechildren together, so the snowdrop bells call forth all the otherflowers. First and foremost comes the primrose, and cowslips—Heaven'skeys as we call them—open the gates to all the other children of theSpring. "Come forth, come forth!" the returning birds shout from outthe bushes, and silver-grey catkins sprout on every twig. Beech leavesburst off their sharp, brown sheaths and open to the light, as soft astaffety and as green as emeralds.
The other trees follow the example, and so teach their boughs to make aleafy shade against the sun as it mounts higher. Every creature thatloves its kind finds a voice under the blossoming May, and the dumbforest is full of the call and answer of thankful and gladsome lovingthings which have met together, and of sweet tunefulness and songs ofbridal joy.
Round nests have come into being in a thousand secret places—in thetree-tops, in the thick greenwood of the bushes, in the reeds of themarsh; ere long young living things are twittering there, the father andmother-birds call each other, singing to be of good cheer, and taking joyin caring for their young. At that season of love, of growth, ofunfolding life, meseems, as I walk through the woods, that the loving-kindness of the Most High is more than ever nigh unto me; for the forestis as a church, a glorious cathedral at highest festival, all filled withlight and song, and decked in every nook and corner with gay freshflowers and leafy garlands.
Then all is suddenly hushed. It is summer.
But in Autumn the forest is a banqueting-hall where men must sayfarewell, but with good cheer, in hope of a happy meeting. All that haslived is hasting to the grave. Nevertheless on some fair days everythingwears as it were the face of a friend who holds forth a hand at parting.The wide vaults of the woods are finely bedecked with red and yellowsplendor, and albeit the voices of birds are few, albeit the cry of thejay, and the song of the nightingale, and the pipe of the bull-finch mustbe mute, the greenwood is not more dumb than in the Spring; the hunter'shorn rings through the trees and away far over their tops, with thebaying of the hounds, the clapping of the drivers, and the huntsmenshouting the view halloo. Every bright, strong, healthful child of man,then feels himself lord of all that creeps or flies, and his soul isready to soar from his breast. How pure is the air, how spicy is thescent from the fallen leaves on such an au