HIDING PLACES 



An old balm-o'-Gilead tree, growing on 

 a hillside, kindly lets down one mighty 

 limb as pathway to a leafy hiding place 

 incomparably remote and dimly lighted 

 even at noon. The branches make an 

 armchair far back against the trunk, and 

 that glossy foliage, always cool, swishes 

 like waves at low tide. The tree has much 

 to tell, but never an intrusive word. You 

 may sit there with a book or in the dis- 

 tracting company of secret happiness or 

 tears, and it will ignore you courteously, 

 going on about its daylong task of gather- 

 ing greenness from the sun, and only from 

 time to time touching your hand with an 

 inquiring leaf. Sometimes a red squirrel 

 looks in and departs in shocked fashion 

 through the air. Sometimes the sheep 

 pass far below on their way home. But 

 the refuge is secure, and the balm-o'- 

 Gilead's cradling arms wait peacefully to 

 hold an asking child. 



A foamy brown brook that flashes and 

 dallies, is captured and breaks free again, 

 down along the mountain has been coaxed 

 by some wood nymph to furnish sparkling 

 water for her round rock bath. Dutifully 

 it pours in every moment its curveting 

 8 181] 



