WOODLAND PATHS 



slips through clothes and flesh, nor do 

 bones stay it till it tingles in the mar- 

 row, a vitalizing fire that is soothed and 

 nourished by the soft essence of those 

 dead mists, now glowing upward from 

 the moist humus. No wonder the wood- 

 land things come to life and grow again 

 at the touch ! The north wind may howl 

 high above. Here under the trees the 

 soft airs that breathe out of Eden touch 

 you and you know that just round the 

 curve of the road is the very gate itself. 



My way to the most secret and with- 

 drawn country of these wood roads al- 

 ways leads me across Ponkapog brook at 

 the spot where rest the ruins of the old 

 mill. It is three-quarters of a century 

 or more since it ground grist, and of its 

 timbers scarcely a moss-grown remnant 

 remains. The gate to the old dam has 



been gone almost as long, but the waters 

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