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of gray -brown furzy weeds. From their 

 root a dull thread of wetness steals through 

 the low, sour earth, out into the space of si- 

 lence, ruin, death. 



Here it slips across the wood-road. Have 

 a care. To set foot on a wrong spot is to 

 go knee- deep in the quagmire. Look to 

 the other hand. There lies the great swamp. 

 This water feeds the road-side pond that at 

 last drains away into it. What sullen, sul- 

 len water ! So wide, so gray. The year has 

 been wet. See how far beyond its banks the 

 trees stand dead a high, whitish ring about 

 each trunk. Water made it sour, stagnant 

 water that shut life away from their root, 

 albeit they were all growths of the marsh- 

 land sweet -gum, water and swamp oak, 

 big, straight-bodied elms. Spring brought 

 them bravely into bud the rains descend- 

 ed, the floods came the pond spread and 

 spread. For weeks it lapped their roots, 

 their trunks sickness fell upon them as 

 in a night they withered. Now they stand, 

 gray and crumbling, outside the deadly wa- 

 ter, a sere, sombre background for its low, 

 lapping shield. 



How tranced it lies, for all this ruffling 

 wind. You would never dream that still 

 and silver seeming masked murder for man 



