THE BROWN FRONTIER 



the loam can be heard, if you bend low 

 enough and listen long. 



When the air is frost-clear fairy land- 

 scapes, hidden since spring came with 

 mists and masking leaves, rise with an 

 effect of unbeheld creation. Small pools 

 appear, and avenues among the bracken 

 that still wave banners of chestnut and 

 old gold. The lonely homes of ground- 

 nesting birds grow visible. Trinkets are 

 scattered as the forest makes ready for 

 night tiny cones, abandoned snail shells, 

 and feathers which the woodpecker and 

 oriole dropped when they took leave. 

 The sun dapples with yellow the partridge 

 haunts where once drooped films of maiden- 

 hair fern. 



The home that the squirrel built for his 

 summer idyl is shattered by the winds 

 aloft and falls to earth with other finished 

 things. The feathery wrack of cat-tails 

 sails the waters and is hung upon the 

 grasses of the marsh. Fallow fields spread 

 a tangle of livid stems, but jewels lie in 

 the wood road, for berries, the last har- 

 vest, are shaken down by bird gleaners 

 from vine and shrub, where they hang in 

 festal plenty, so that all hardy creatures 



[93] 



