Low Tides 



roadside, to be blamed, because it is 

 not tall and green and fruitful as its 

 neighbor in the well-tilled field the 

 other side the fence? The grains 

 from which they sprang were equally 

 sound last spring and assuredly held 

 within themselves like possibilities. 

 All we know is that one found con- 

 genial conditions, the other not. Had 

 that big oak the thunderbolt destroyed 

 a better right to live than its neighbor 

 that endures ? 



I have spoken of the odor of the 

 hyacinth as invariably recalling child- 

 hood days. The whirring of the elec- 

 tric fan, which we on occasions set in 

 motion to freshen up the air inside at 

 this season of the year, with equally 

 unfailing certainty carries me instantly 

 to a summer spent in Washington, 

 D. C. Once upon a time a message 

 came over the wire in the month of 

 August from the then summer capital 

 at Beverley Farms, Massachusetts. 

 It was signed by William Howard Taft 



[49] 



