In the Forest
69
ring soundingly in the night air upon the cold trees.
A sort of continuous forest-clearing.
And the whole shore of the River Oster is spread before us and below us in a bright opal smoke with purple spots in it.
And when we drive over the railway bridge, and see below the blue and red lights, and hear the whistle of the steam-engines, we involuntarily ask:
—Is this really the twentieth century?
