But now in company with our little woodland stream we pass out into the more open valley. As we do so a sound as of a swelling echo from the mountain range to the left falls on the ear, like unto the great forest murmur of the bending pines when under the influence of a strong upland breeze. It increases more and more, until suddenly it is apparent that the sound comes from the twin-mountain chain to the right. Looking up, and following the wave of sound with straining eyes, we search for the cause, without perceiving it. Far up we gaze, where the trees and the fleecy white clouds are outlined against the deep blue of the sky; and then we realize that an Intercolonial train has passed high up in the air, somewhere between sky and valley, but entirely concealed by the dense forest growth—so much so that not even a trace of smoke or vapor can be seen, so effectually have they been filtered and dissipated by the thick woodland screen.
“Oh! tenderly deepen the woodland glooms,
And merrily sway the beeches;
Breathe delicately the willow blooms,
And the pines rehearse new speeches;
The elms toss high till they reach the sky,
Pale catkins the yellow birch launches,
But the tree I love all the greenwood above
Is the maple of sunny branches.”
