86 LITERARY PILGRIMAGES 



complaining among these loneliest of forest 

 trees. 



In late summer it is different. Out of the gray 

 reindeer moss and poverty weed which are more 

 prevalent than grass on the sands beneath these 

 trees spire slender scapes of Spiranthes gracilis, 

 the tiny orchid that someone named ladies' 

 tresses, not because the flower looks like them 

 but reminds of them, being wayward and fra- 

 grant and lovingly blown by all winds. Here is 

 goldenrod, and wee asters are just opening their 

 baby-blue eyes to the approaching autumn. Wood 

 warblers trill in the absurd forest, and the rich 

 aroma of its leaves subtends the lighter fra- 

 grance of the blossoming wild flowers. In 

 feathery glades among these Truro trees one 

 might forget that winter is to come and bring 

 bleakness and desolation unspeakable to the land 

 with him. But if winter does not always warn, 

 the sea does. Not so deep in any witch hollow 

 can you hide, not so far may you wander in en- 

 chanted forests, as to escape its call. The trees 

 murmur continually the song of the surf, and the 

 crash of its breakers echoes continually in the air 



