ALONG A COUNTRY ROAD 



and the ghosts of all the departed Naiads 

 waited with dripping locks for such dulcet 

 clamor to cease. 



The road through the woods has all the 

 solemnity of an aisle of the Druids. There 

 is something in an ancient oak which will 

 not be dismissed lightly. How many storms 

 have rocked this veteran to sleep in winter 

 stress and turmoil? How many suns have 

 shimmered among his leaves when summer 

 ruled the land? Squirrels have played in his 

 branches and the dove moaned through his 

 leaves. The stars have spangled the skies 

 above him, and a thousand rains have 

 quenched his thirsty roots. The moccasin of 

 the Indian has pressed the trail which led by 

 him, the white man's footstep has followed, 

 and both are now as the dust they crossed. 

 But the oak bides. 



Through stretches of vine-tangled thicket, 

 by open meadow and fields of grain the road 

 winds. It passes by pools where cows stand 

 knee-deep in water and blue flag-lilies rise in 

 hosts, each one veined as delicately as a lady's 

 hand. It passes slopes that flame out in em- 

 broidered banners of wild-flowers, brilliant 



