s a language superimposed upon the ordinary
language. 'To express satisfaction the Casterbridge market-man added
to his utterance a broadening of the cheeks, a crevicing of the eyes,
a throwing back of the shoulders.' 'If he wondered ... you knew it
from perceiving the inside of his crimson mouth and the target-like
circling of his eyes.' The language of deliberation expressed itself
in the form of 'sundry attacks on the moss of adjoining walls with the
end of his stick' or a 'change of his hat from the horizontal to the
less so.'

The novel called _The Woodlanders_ is filled with notable
illustrations of an interest in minute things. The facts are
introduced unobtrusively and no great emphasis is laid upon them. But
they cling to the memory. Giles Winterbourne, a chief character in
this story, 'had a marvelous power in making trees grow. Although he
would seem to shovel in the earth quite carelessly there was a sort of
sympathy between himself and the fir, oak, or beech that he was
operating on; so that the roots took hold of the soil in a few days.'
When any of the journeymen planted, one quarter of the trees died
away. There is a graphic little scene where Winterbourne plants and
Marty South holds the trees for him. 'Winterbourne's fingers were
endowed with a gentle conjurer's touch in spreading the roots of each
little tree, resulting in a sort of caress under which the delicate
fibres all laid themselves out in their proper direction for growth.'
Marty declared that the trees began to 'sigh' as soon as they were put
upright, 'though when they are lying down they don't sigh at all.'
Winterbourne had never noticed it. 'She erected one of the young pines
into its hole, and held up her finger; the soft musical breathing
instantly set in, which was not to cease night or day till the grown
tree should be felled--probably long after the two planters had been
felled themselves.'

Later on in the story there is a description of this same Giles
Winterbourne returning with his horses and his cider apparatus from a
neighboring village. 'He looked and smelt like autumn's very brother,
his face being sunburnt to wheat color, his eyes blue as corn flowers,
his sleeves and leggings dyed with fruit stains, his hands clammy with
the sweet juice of apples, his hat sprinkled with pips, and everywhere
about him that atmosphere of cider which at its first return each
season has such an indescribable fascination for those who have been