IN THE WREN ORCHARD. 207 



panding and contracting, living and dying. 

 Without reaction there could be no action. 

 Without death we should not know what life 

 meant ; without what we call sorrow there could 

 be no joy. 



I hear the song of the veery down there under 

 the willows. It is a weird, ventriloquial song. 

 The bird seems making its gypsy music to 

 itself, not to the world. In that dark corner 

 the trillium grows, keeping its face hidden un- 

 der its cloak. There, too, the jack-in-the- 

 pulpit is found masking its face. The song of 

 the veery has in it the tinkling of bells, the 

 jangle of the tamborine. It recalls to me the 

 gypsy chorus in the " Bohemian Girl," and when 

 I hear it as evening draws on, I can picture light 

 feet tripping over the damp grass, and in the 

 shadows made by moving of branches and ferns 

 I can see dark forms moving back and forth in 

 the windings of the dance. 



