WHEN THE OAKS WEAR DAMSON 



spreading fire the crows will humorously 

 watch these wander-birds from the forest 

 edges. They feel no southward impulse. 

 Circling the clearing, they comment in 

 uproar upon the most advisable oak for 

 their afternoon symposium, expand their 

 polished feathers, and, seated in a derisive 

 row, caw a farewell to the wader's long, 

 departing legs. Now the mountaineer's 

 girl, remembering Old World peasant tales 

 that never have been told her, hurries in- 

 doors at nightfall from the hallooing specter 

 of the Wild Huntsman in the clouds, who 

 is but the anxious leader of the flying 

 wedge. 



Buckwheat stubble in October is such' 

 a crimson as no Fiesolan rose garden ever 

 unfurled. Gray hill slopes of the North 

 are festal with its color, insistent even 

 through rains, glowing from rose madder 

 to maroon. Lower stretches out the pale 

 yellow of oats stubble, which breaks into 

 flashing splinters under the noon sun. 

 The wheat fields show ocher, and darker 

 burnt sienna at the roots lie the reaped 

 fields of barley. Small rash flowers, fancy- 

 ing that the ground between the grain 

 stalks has been cultivated especially for 



[55] 



