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off is a clear, stagnant pool ; a red-bird flut- 

 ters in the shallow of it, two squirrels come 

 down to drink, and all about in the soft 

 margin you see the footmarks of all man- 

 ner of woodland creatures that slake their 

 thirst with these bitter waters. The pool 

 lies, a cairngorm mirror framed in ebony 

 and emerald. The water of it drains through 

 fallen oak leaves and oak roots, and takes on 

 a translucent brown. At one edge stand two 

 or three big trees that the stagnant water 

 has killed. Their branches have dropped, 

 leaving columnar trunks that the climb- 

 ing poison-ivy has covered to the topmost 

 point. Was ever aught fairer than this life 

 embracing death ? Overhead the straight 

 sun-rays stream down, and are tossed back 

 in golden shimmers from the flashing water 

 to play hide-and-seek in the intimate green- 

 ery of the vines. All is still so still ! A 

 ruby -throat flashes out from among the 

 green columns. Your eye follows. He is 

 poised on dazzling wings before something 

 white and slender and lightly waving in one 

 of the dark forest aisles. This wet wood- 

 land is free of undergrowth. You run after 

 the bright bird, and find the fair lily of the 

 woods, treasure - trove only of true sylvan 

 solitudes. 



