X. 



THE PATH THROUGH THE 

 CORNFIELDS 



r I ^HE children are sitting under a lime tree, 

 spelling out the time of day on a dandelion. 



By the way, they call it dentelion dent-de-lion 

 a relic, it is said, of the old friendship between 

 the French and the Scots, just as the sorrel at 

 Craigmillar left by Mary's vanished hand recalls 

 a still closer tie. 



Concerning that, of course, they know nothing, 

 and care less. 



" One, two, three, four." 



The puffs are very gentle, because they have to 

 get a good deal out of it. 



"Five, six, seven, eight." 



After this they scarcely breathe lest they scatter 

 too many at once. 



" Nine, ten, eleven." 



