IN A PALACE OF REEDS. 119 
it—Will and I—while rambling in the valley, 
and, by virtue of the right of discovery, quietly 
appropriated it for our indwelling during the 
fair weather of the delightful Georgian spring. 
Imagine two wild plum trees in full sweet- 
scented bloom standing twenty-five feet apart, 
with a thick-leaved muscadine vine flung over 
them like a richly wrought mantle. The boles 
of the trees are gray and mossy, fluted like 
antique pillars. The ground is flecked with 
rugs of dark Southern moss through which the 
violets and spring beauties have found their 
way. The keen odor of sassafras and the 
delicate perfume of tulip honey comes along 
the air. You stand on the threshold of this 
natural palace, and looking through the 
tender gloom of its arched hall you see the 
cool river flowing and singing on. There are 
bees in the air, wild bees whose home is 
in some great hollow plane-tree not far away. 
You hear the dreamful hum of tiny wings. 
You see the plum flowers shake and let fall 
their golden pollen dust, and the reeds, the 
tall gold-and-green reeds, rise all around the 
palace forming its walls. The earth is warm, 
the sky is pure and cloudless. Deep in the 
brake a hermit-thrush is calling. A vireo be- 
yond the river quavers mourntully. 
The Palace of Reeds was handsomely fur- 
nished with a mossy log for sofa, two camp- 
stools and a low canvas table. Aneasel stood 
for most of the day in the clear light of the 
west, opening just above the babbling water. 
It is worth noting, because now it is a fra- 
grant memory, that the drawing-board was 
of red cedar. The box of moist water-colors, 
the bird-sketches, the portfolio of pencil notes, 
