A FAVORITE ROUND 23 



ing. A veery snarls, and a thrasher's reso- 

 nant kiss makes me smile. If he knew it, 

 he would smile in his turn, perhaps, at my 

 " pathetic fallacy." The absence of music 

 here, just where I expected it most confi- 

 dently, is disappointing, but I do not stay to 

 grieve over the loss. As the road climbs to 

 dry ground again, I remark how close to its 

 edge the rabbit-foot clover is growing. It 

 is at its prettiest now, the grayish green heads 

 tipped with pink. If it were as uncommon 

 as the yellow bedstraw, perhaps I should 

 think it quite as beautiful. I have known it 

 since I have known anything (" pussies," we 

 called it), but I never dreamed of its being 

 a clover till I began to use a botany book. 

 All the way along I notice how it cleaves to 

 the very edge of the track. " Let me have 

 the poorest place," it says. And it thrives 

 there. Such is the inheritance of the meek. 

 Here in the pine woods a black-throated 

 green warbler is dreaming audibly, and, bet- 

 ter still, a solitary vireo, the only one I have 

 heard for a month or more, sings a few 

 strains, with that sweet, falling cadence of 

 which he alone has the secret. From a 



