swing gate that is at the top of these steps. And they were almost at the gate when Bobbie said:—
"Hush. Stop! What's that?"
"That" was a very odd noise indeed,—a soft noise, but quite plainly to be heard through the sound of the wind in the tree branches, and the hum and whirr of the telegraph wires. It was a sort of rustling, whispering sound. As they listened it stopped, and then it began again.
And this time it did not stop, but it grew louder and more rustling and rumbling.
"Look—" cried Peter, suddenly—"the tree over there!"
The tree he pointed at was one of those that have rough gray leaves and white flowers. The berries, when they come, are bright scarlet, but if you pick them, they disappoint you by turning black before you get them home. And, as Peter pointed, the tree was moving,—not just the way trees ought to move when the wind blows through them, but all in one piece, as though it were a live creature and were walking down the side of the cutting.
"It's moving!" cried Bobbie. "Oh, look! and so are the others. It's like the woods in Macbeth."
