ked by tiny worms, which come in some mysterious way by
thousands. They select the strongest and handsomest specimens, and take
possession of them. The trees have only their resinous sap as a weapon
of defence. This sap they pour over their enemies, and over their eggs
deposited in the crevices of the bark. Jack watched this unequal contest
with the greatest interest, and saw the slow dropping of these odorous
tears. Sometimes the fir-tree won the victory, but too often it perished
and withered slowly, until at last the giant of the forest; whose lofty
top had been the haunt of singing-birds, where bees had made their home,
and which had sheltered a thousand different lives, stood white and
ghastly as if struck by lightning.

During these walks through the woods, the forester and his companion
talked very little. They listened rather to the sweet and innumerable
sounds about them. The sound of the wind varied with every tree that it
touched. Among the pines it moaned and sighed like the sea. Among the
birches and aspens, it rattled the leaves like castanets; while from the
borders of the ponds, which were numerous in this part of the forest,
came gentle rustlings from the long, slender, silken-coated reeds. Jack
learned to distinguish all these sounds and to love them.

The little boy, however, had incurred the enmity of many of the
peasants, who saw him constantly with the forester, to whom they had
sworn eternal hatred. Cowardly and sulky, they touched their hats
respectfully enough to Jack when they met him with Father Archambauld,
but when he was alone, they shook their fists at him with horrible
oaths.

There was one old woman, brown as an Indian squaw, who haunted the very
dreams of the child. On his way home at sunset, he always met her with
her fagots on her back. She stood in the path and assailed him with her
tongue; and sometimes, merely to frighten him, ran after him for a few
steps. Poor little Jack often reached his mother's side breathless and
terrified, but, after all, this only added another interest to his life.
Sometimes Jack found his mother in the kitchen talking in a low voice;
no sound was to be heard in the house save the ticking of the great
clock in the dining-room. "Hush, my dear," said his mother; "He is
up-stairs. He is at work!"

Jack sat down in a corner and watched the cat lying in the sun. With
the awkwardness of a child who makes a noise merely because he knows he
ought not to do so