Reclaiming a Salt Meadow 



ing glamour lent by a season, or an hour, Memory of 

 which imprints upon the brain a picture 

 that can never be forgotten. And when 

 at other times of year I look upon this far 

 reach of often - changing meadow, there 

 abides with it always a memory of the soft 

 and tender charm of early spring, that no 

 reality of November-brown or winter-snow 

 can wholly drive away. 



