But the Silver Pines were now the
most impressively beautiful of all. Colossal spires two hundred feet in
height waved like supple golden-rods chanting and bowing low as if in
worship; while the whole mass of their long, tremulous foliage was
kindled into one continuous blaze of white sun-fire. The force of the
gale was such that the most steadfast monarch of them all rocked down to
its roots, with a motion plainly perceptible when one leaned against it.
Nature was holding high festival, and every fiber of the most rigid
giants thrilled with glad excitement.
I drifted on through the midst of this passionate music and motion,
across many a glen, from ridge to ridge; often halting in the lee of a
rock for shelter, or to gaze and listen. Even when the grand anthem had
swelled to its highest pitch, I could distinctly hear the varying tones
of individual trees--Spruce, and Fir, and Pine, and leafless Oak--and
even the infinitely gentle rustle of the withered grasses at my feet.
Each was expressing itself in its own way--singing its own song, and
making its own peculiar gestures--manifesting a richness of variety to
be found in no other forest I have yet seen.
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