WOOD ROADS 



do not forget. Every year the spring 

 floods bring down what driftwood the 

 pond banks can spare and bar their own 

 course with it at this spot. The water 

 rises as high as of old, for a brief time. 



It is as if the brook paid a memorial 

 tribute thus yearly to the honest labor of 

 the pioneers, now long gone. For a time 

 it lasts, then the cementing bonds of 

 dead leaves fail and the black flood roars 

 through to the sea. Come two months 

 later and where its highest rim touched 

 you will find that it planted flowers in 

 loving remembrance also, and saxifrage 

 and dwarf blue violet lean in fragrant 

 affection over the waters. I like to think 

 that on Memorial day at least the stream 

 makes echo of the clank of the old-time 

 mill-wheel in its liquid prattle, and that 

 the shuttle of reflected sunshine dancing 

 back and forth is a glorified ghost of the 



