Peripatetic Meditations 



reminiscent thrush, rollicking cat-bird and 

 ghostly chat. Then too, the bluet and violet, 

 star of Bethlehem and dandelion, purple lung- 

 wort and pink azalea ; color, color everywhere ! 

 Music, color and Time turned back to the youth- 

 ful years of the lonely rambler. A man turned 

 boy and in a colonial setting. Not my poor self, 

 merely, in the dry bed of a departed mill-pond. 



No aquatic plants have raised their expectant 

 heads above the sun-baked mud and turned back 

 to Mother Earth, wondering what had hap- 

 pened. At least, I could find no evidence of 

 this, but in their stead, germinated seeds carried 

 hither by the March winds and April gales. 

 These are not vigorous growths, but relieve the 

 monotony of barren, brown ground, and in time 

 would flourish. Nature soon obliterates all 

 traces of man's interference when she has a free 

 hand, but the new dam and re-erected mill will 

 be finished ere long and then the water lily and 

 spatter-dock, pickerel weed and milfoil will 

 reign supreme. 



It is the meadow now, however, not only of 

 early Colonial days but of the Indian, and I have 

 been wondering if any traces of their handiwork 

 still remain. My search therefor was fruit- 



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