IN OLD PONKAPOAG 37 



herbage beneath. While I watched them two 

 of these, half-grown Holstein heifers, bounded 

 friskily to the hard turf of the cedar-guarded 

 pasture above and raced in a satyr-like romp over 

 the close turf and among the cedars for a time. 

 It was as if they knew that Corydon had just 

 vanished up that roadside in Arcady in pursuit 

 of the maiden that the Pilgrim described to him, 

 and the valley was free from all supervision for a 

 time. The white spikes of bloom on the water- 

 plantain nodded to let them pass, and nodded again 

 as if they too knew why the satyrs frisked and on 

 what errand the shepherd had gone. 



Daintiest of embodied thoughts which flit along 

 this sequestered valley are the butterflies. This 

 is their feasting time of year, for now the milkweed 

 blooms hang crowded umbels of sticky sweetness 

 that no honey-loving insect can resist. Com- 

 monest of these by the brookside is Asclepias 

 cornuti with its large pale leaves and its dull 

 greenish-purplish flowers. It is rather odd that out 

 of the same brook water and the salts and humus 

 in the black earth through which it flows one plant 

 should grow these dull, heavy, loutish flowers, 



