long
ago, alas! They were quite hollow, indeed they were falling all to pieces, but as quiet and sweet-spoken as a young leaf.
And then there are some trees in the valleys under the mountains, sound as a bell, and bad right through. That sort of thing
seems to spread. There used to be some very dangerous parts in this country. There are still some very black patches.’
‘Like the Old Forest away to the north, do you mean?’ asked Merry.
‘Aye, aye, something like, but much worse. I do not doubt there is some shadow of the Great Darkness lying there still away
north; and bad memories are handed down. But there are hollow dales in this land where the Darkness has never been lifted,
and the trees are older than I am. Still, we do what we can. We keep off strangers and the foolhardy; and we train and we
teach, we walk and we weed.
‘We are tree-herds, we old Ents. Few enough of us are left now. Sheep get like shepherd, and shepherds like sheep, it is said;
but slowly, and neither have long in the world. It is quicker and closer with trees and Ents, and they walk down the ages together. For Ents are more like Elves: less interested
in themselves than Men are, and better at getting inside other things. And yet again Ents are more like Men, more changeable
than Elves are, and quicker at taking the colour of the outside, you might say. Or better than both: for they are steadier
and keep their minds on things longer.
‘Some of my kin look just like trees now, and need something great to rouse them; and they speak only in whispers. But some
of my trees are limb-lithe, and many can talk to me. Elves began it, of course, waking trees up and teaching them to speak
and learning their tree-talk. They always wished to talk to everything, the old Elves did. But then the Great Darkness came,
and they passed away over the Sea, or fled into far valleys, and hid themselves, and made songs about days that would never
come again. Never again. Aye, aye, there was all one wood once upon a time from here to the Mountains of Lune, and this was
just the East End.
‘Those were the broad days! Time was when I could walk and sing all day and hear no more than the echo of my own voice in
the hollow hills. The woods were like the woods of Lothlórien, only thicker, stronger, younger. And the smell of the air!
I used to spend a week just breathing.’
Treebeard fell silent, striding along, and yet making hardly a sound with his great feet. Then he began to hum again, and
passed into a murmuring chant. Gradually the hobbits became aware that he was chanting to them:
In the willow-meads of Tasarinan I walked in the Spring.
Ah! the sight and the smell of the Spring in Nan-tasarion!
And I said that was good.
I wandered in Summer in the elm-woods of Ossiriand.
Ah! the light and the music in the Summer by the Seven Rivers of Ossir!
And I thought that was best.
To the beeches of Neldoreth I came in the Autumn.
Ah! the gold and the red and the sighing of leaves in the Autumn in Taur-na-neldor!
It was more than my desire.
To the pine-trees upon the highland of Dorthonion I climbed in the Winter.
Ah! the wind and the whiteness and the black branches of Winter upon Orod-na-Thôn!
My voice went up and sang in the sky.
And now all those lands lie under the wave,
And I walk in Ambaróna, in Tauremorna, in Aldalómë,
In my own land, in the country of Fangorn,
Where the roots are long,
And the years lie thicker than the leaves
In Tauremornalómë.
He ended, and strode on silently, and in all the wood, as far as ear could reach, there was not a sound.
The day waned, and dusk was twined about the boles of the trees. At last the hobbits saw, rising dimly before them, a steep
dark land: they had come to the feet of the mountains, and to the green roots of tall Methedras. Down the hillside the young
Entwash, leaping from its springs high above, ran noisily from step to step to meet them. On the right of the stream there
was a long slope, clad with
ago, alas! They were quite hollow, indeed they were falling all to pieces, but as quiet and sweet-spoken as a young leaf.
And then there are some trees in the valleys under the mountains, sound as a bell, and bad right through. That sort of thing
seems to spread. There used to be some very dangerous parts in this country. There are still some very black patches.’
‘Like the Old Forest away to the north, do you mean?’ asked Merry.
‘Aye, aye, something like, but much worse. I do not doubt there is some shadow of the Great Darkness lying there still away
north; and bad memories are handed down. But there are hollow dales in this land where the Darkness has never been lifted,
and the trees are older than I am. Still, we do what we can. We keep off strangers and the foolhardy; and we train and we
teach, we walk and we weed.
‘We are tree-herds, we old Ents. Few enough of us are left now. Sheep get like shepherd, and shepherds like sheep, it is said;
but slowly, and neither have long in the world. It is quicker and closer with trees and Ents, and they walk down the ages together. For Ents are more like Elves: less interested
in themselves than Men are, and better at getting inside other things. And yet again Ents are more like Men, more changeable
than Elves are, and quicker at taking the colour of the outside, you might say. Or better than both: for they are steadier
and keep their minds on things longer.
‘Some of my kin look just like trees now, and need something great to rouse them; and they speak only in whispers. But some
of my trees are limb-lithe, and many can talk to me. Elves began it, of course, waking trees up and teaching them to speak
and learning their tree-talk. They always wished to talk to everything, the old Elves did. But then the Great Darkness came,
and they passed away over the Sea, or fled into far valleys, and hid themselves, and made songs about days that would never
come again. Never again. Aye, aye, there was all one wood once upon a time from here to the Mountains of Lune, and this was
just the East End.
‘Those were the broad days! Time was when I could walk and sing all day and hear no more than the echo of my own voice in
the hollow hills. The woods were like the woods of Lothlórien, only thicker, stronger, younger. And the smell of the air!
I used to spend a week just breathing.’
Treebeard fell silent, striding along, and yet making hardly a sound with his great feet. Then he began to hum again, and
passed into a murmuring chant. Gradually the hobbits became aware that he was chanting to them:
In the willow-meads of Tasarinan I walked in the Spring.
Ah! the sight and the smell of the Spring in Nan-tasarion!
And I said that was good.
I wandered in Summer in the elm-woods of Ossiriand.
Ah! the light and the music in the Summer by the Seven Rivers of Ossir!
And I thought that was best.
To the beeches of Neldoreth I came in the Autumn.
Ah! the gold and the red and the sighing of leaves in the Autumn in Taur-na-neldor!
It was more than my desire.
To the pine-trees upon the highland of Dorthonion I climbed in the Winter.
Ah! the wind and the whiteness and the black branches of Winter upon Orod-na-Thôn!
My voice went up and sang in the sky.
And now all those lands lie under the wave,
And I walk in Ambaróna, in Tauremorna, in Aldalómë,
In my own land, in the country of Fangorn,
Where the roots are long,
And the years lie thicker than the leaves
In Tauremornalómë.
He ended, and strode on silently, and in all the wood, as far as ear could reach, there was not a sound.
The day waned, and dusk was twined about the boles of the trees. At last the hobbits saw, rising dimly before them, a steep
dark land: they had come to the feet of the mountains, and to the green roots of tall Methedras. Down the hillside the young
Entwash, leaping from its springs high above, ran noisily from step to step to meet them. On the right of the stream there
was a long slope, clad with
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