Salt Lake Tribune | 1912-12-08 | Page 53 | "the Forest," by Edwine Noye, Like Pieces of a Dream, Says Nell Brinkley

"The Forest," by Edwine Noye, Like Pieces of a Dream, Says Nell Brinkley I Here .in the little green book are a woodsman and his wife a sweet, white dryad from the heart of a silver birch and the wild god, Pan. J HliftE j have iu my two hauds. -while I sit aud tlrcam of long "old myths, while. I see balf-sbapeu pictures of white wood nymphs, while I scent hi my nostrils the deep, strong smell of the forest and the sweet, wot odor of ray and greeu moss, while- F writhe in my old hankering for the greenwood and a little brown house in its deeps; here, while I drift iu wakened, lovely dreams, ,7 hold in my two hands a little green book. All green and gold, it is like its name. And its name is "THE FOREST." Could you or I, who love the wind in the trees, and the green tree, boles, I be secret places aud the hope for secret adventure, ftud the green aud gold of a little thin book with the mystic mys-tic name, "THE FOREST," on its buck -without dipping tuto t he ta Io be! ween its white petal-leaves And when you do. you will dip into a dream I Under the mime "THE FOREST" is a tiny oak. leal and under the tiny oak loaf a name a winsome aud delicious sort of name of tho twenty-year-old girl who wrote "TIJE FOREST." And it is EDWINE .NO YE. And it stirred my fancy with its sheer, sweet beauty: made forgotten and never known music pipe through my mind; made forest spirits dance for me; made all my old loves of Greek Fable walk for me. My red grate fire scenia made of brush and sticks behind a sheltering rock; my books and deep chair fade; tbo Avails draw stealthily away; great trees loom round me, and the. shadows seem to be black forest glades. And I hold the little lit-tle thin green book between my hauds and wonder how people of a droamvcan be so real. "Sylvan" comes homeward through the forest in a gale. The night, the gale, tho pale sunset, the woodsman's name. are pieces of a dream but yet, in tho clamor of the wind he worries for the purple fruit of the plum tree b" his door-? And so we love him for he's blood and bones and heart! lichind his veil of oream ho is a lusty mortal. Here in tho little green book arc a woodsman and his wife ;i little, bashful child, a sweet, white dryad from the heart of a silver birch the Gale; and Pan the wild god Pan! Here, too, the Koholds of the treo roots peer at you. Plain witchery there is in this thin grecii' book; it is a ' stealthy finger that stirs the deeps of the pool of dreams I of mystic unreality a real tale throbs; thero is warm, human love and human fire and food and deep, warm bod! i The little green book. "THE FOR EST. ' ' by EDWTNE NOYE. is good to have and good to know for it sets yonV heart ,a-dreaining "and a-singing. too. NELL BRINKLEY.