One afternoon a few years ago, in a mountain forest in upstate New York, I strayed from the beaten path and made my way slowly and alone through the brush. The little shrubs and bushes and saplings were not particularly dense, and I suppose I could have broken into a run if I had cared to. But there is something about a slow solitary walk that gives me the feeling of having become a moving root. If I could only make myself stand still long enough, I would turn into a tree. I wonder what kind of leaf I would bear.
   Ordinarily a city-dweller, as I have become, hears nothing at all when he first arrives in some comparatively unspoiled natural place. I guess the drumming of urban sounds has made his ears temporarily insensitive. But after about fifteen minutes, one begins to be aware of the sounds of the forest. The birds, the insects, the breezes, the occasional movements of invisible animals (not always invisible—I saw a porcupine there once, rooting among dead leaves—he glanced at me over his shoulder of calm patience and, for all I know, welcome—he was very fine) foraging or perhaps just turning over in their afternoon sleep—these made a rich music of their own.
   But on my afternoon, I walked slowly, and paused, and stood still, and walked on slowly, further and further into the places of the trees, and paused, and walked slowly, and paused, and listened. And even after quite a long time, I heard nothing at all. I even resorted to an old device, honored by dead men who lie down among trees. I stood absolutely still, and closed my eyes, and listened and listened. And still I heard nothing.
   When I opened my eyes, a doe was standing only a few feet away from me. She was dappled with fragments broken off from a birch tree. She stood utterly still. So did I. I didn’t want to startle her, of