WOODLAND PATHS 



pellucid depths I do not know, but the 

 spring sunlight always shows it as it 

 sends its shafts down into the quivering 

 shallows, and it creams the foam that 

 fluffs beneath the gate of the old dam 

 and flows seaward. 



This gate is always lifted a little and 

 the stream never fails. In spring its 

 brimming volume floods the meadows and 

 roars down miniature rocky gorges, a 

 soothing lullaby of a roar that you may 

 hear crooning in at your window of an 

 April night to surely sing you to sleep. 

 In summer the gateman comes along and 

 puts a mute on the stream by dropping 

 the gate a little, and it lisps and purls 

 through the little gorges, slipping from 

 one rock-bound pool to another. 



In April the suckers come up, breast- 

 ing the flood from another pond a half- 

 mile down stream, to spawn; great, 

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