A MASQUE OF THE SEASONS 



can hear the pioneer echo of an axe. It leaps 

 across from a far-off slope with hollow sound, 

 and you can picture the swaying, bending, 

 crashing downfall of some sturdy oak or 

 hickory as the measured echoes are carried 

 past. Every hour is a dream, every dream a 

 delight. 



For Summer's hand has rocked the world to sleep, 

 And smoothed the wrinkles in her brow of care. 



When lily-pads begin to darken and grow 

 crisp, and waters change from green to amber 

 and brown, the view from the hill is vastly dif- 

 ferent. Now oftener the ripples at the lake's 

 edge are tipped with a feathery spume, beaten 

 out by the flailing, restless winds. Hickories 

 toss down yellow, irregularly shaped leaves, 

 and oaks turn to red and brown and glaze 

 smoothly under the glow of autumnal suns. 

 Sumach flames from fence-corners and on the 

 slopes, and the grass is rusty in spots and tak- 

 ing on a darker green. The wandering tern 

 go back and forth along the lake-shore, tack- 

 ing and veering on labored wing, and with 

 their creaking cry sounding harshly above the 

 bulrushes. The loon's black head appears on 



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