b'But beneath, mid the gnashing of teeth, the fretting and flurries, toad plucked up the courage to treaty the pack, beating his fists on the tortoises back, til silence was king of the beasts of the wood. A good start. My friends, croaks the toad, throat sodden with grief. What use are these tears? Theyll not spring her casket; our remedys clear, we have but to grasp it.Who else has a wrapper of star-sprinkled light? Who acts as a beacon, mid the inks of the night, as pale and as cold as the pure driven snow. As white as the Moon, and our author woe?Now, blood was among them, and up went a howl. The barn owl was toasting his wings when they came, with torches and pitchforks, with thunder and rain, like Burnham Wood marching on high Dunsinane, they came.They cut off his head and they hung it on high, they dangled his head from a thread in the sky, both penance and omen to those who went afterthe forest is sacred, so shall it remain, and those who defend it do so in her name, her and her kindred give life to our song:Ay silva excelsior. The Forest is strong. Constructivism and the Bauhaus module, single performer. Photo, Cathy Turner48 49'