All of the forest was not gloomy however. Much of it was unbelievably beautiful. Acres of woods there were which presented nothing but a gigantic sea of many-colored blossoms, colors that seemed like something out of a dream, indescribable, yet clear in one’s memory as a definite picture of something seen. The Doctor as we went forward spoke very little; when he did it was almost always on the same subject: “the absence of decay,” as he put it. “I am utterly puzzled, Stubbins,” said he, in one of his longer outbursts when we were resting. “Why, there is hardly any leaf-mould at all!” “What difference would that make, Doctor?” I asked. “Well, that’s what the trees live on, mostly, in our world,” said he. “The forest growth, I mean—the soil that is formed by dying trees and rotting leaves—that is the nourishment that brings forth the seedlings which finally grow into new trees. But here! Well, of course there is _some_ soil—and some shedding of leaves. But I’ve hardly seen a dead tree since I’ve been in these woods. One would almost think that there were some—er—balance. Some _arrangement_ of—er—well—I can’t explain it. . . . It beats me entirely.” I did not, at the time, completely understand what he meant. And yet it did seem as though every one of these giant plants that rose about us led a life of peaceful growth, undisturbed by rot, by blight or by disease. [Illustration: “_There was more movement in the limbs of the trees_”] Suddenly in our march we found ourselves at the end of the wooded section. Hills and mountains again spread before us. They were not the same as those we had first seen, however. These had vegetation, of a kind, on them. Low shrubs and heath plants clothed this rolling land with a dense growth—often very difficult to get through. But still no sign of decay—little or no leaf-mould. The Doctor now decided that perhaps part of the reason for this was the seasons—or rather the lack of seasons. He said that we would probably find that here there was no regular winter or summer. It was an entirely new problem, so far as the struggle for existence was concerned, such as we knew in our world. THE EIGHTH CHAPTER The Singing Trees