22Q 



The first rain will melt the crusted earth, 

 set the big roots creeping deep and deeper 

 make all this mile-long forest passable for 

 naught that hath not wings. 



Winged things love it not save, indeed, 

 the bittern, who builds here her nest, booms 

 sullen over the marsh- land all the bright 

 summer through. Sometimes the wood- 

 pecker comes aforaging sometimes, too, 

 the log -cock flies screaming across the 

 gloom. Never any singing bird robin, 

 red-bird, thrush, oriole, nor wren. Now one 

 crow caws loud from the pond to his fel- 

 lows in the swamp. Far overhead a buz- 

 zard circles on spread wings, settles, drops, 

 as though here he found a feast. 



