WOODLAND PATHS 



of the soft blue haze that was taking 

 golden radiance from the setting sun. 

 Up through it I looked to the pale blue 

 of the sky and saw two motes dancing 

 down the sunshine, motes that caroled 

 and grew to glints of heavenly blue that 

 fluttered down on an ancient apple tree 

 like bits of benediction. 



Just a pair of bluebirds, of course, and 

 I don't know now whether they are the 

 first of the migrants to reach my part of 

 the pasture or whether they are the two 

 that have wintered here and that I have 

 seen before on bright days. Wherever 

 they came from they supplied the one bit 

 of blue that I had sought, and their pres- 

 ence was like an embodiment of joy. 

 Then the gentle prattling sweetness of 

 their carol; what a range there was be- 

 tween that and the wild voice of the 

 great-horned owl, heard not twenty-four 

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