"Tat woods were made for the hunters of dreams, The brooks for the fishers of song ;
To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game The streams and the woods belong.
There are thoughts that moan from the soul of the pine And thoughts in a flower-bell curled ;
And the thoughts that are blown with the scent of the fern Are as new and as old as the world." — Foss.
ON first impression one might say that there are no woods worth consideration on the Molega Road. It is quite true that there are no trees desirable for lumber or ship-timber ; there are no dusky forest-aisles, but for all this lacking there are woods crowded with objects of interest, and replete with subtle beauty. An acquaintance of Turner, the great landscape painter, once stood by him while he sketched a scene. As he proceeded to complete the work his companion remarked,
" But, Mr. Turner, I do not see in the landscape the beauty you have put in your picture."
" Don't you wish you could see it 2 " was the artist's reply.