WOODLAND PATHS 



northward. We have signs of her in the 

 yearning of willow twigs and the shy 

 blooming of hepaticas. If she should 

 already be hiding in some sunny, shel- 

 tered nook of the pasture Bose would be 

 as likely to go after her as any other 

 vision. 



March had gone out like a lamb, trail- 

 ing a shorn fleece of mists behind him, 

 mists that morning sun tinted with opal 

 fires that burned out after a little and left 

 pale-blue ashes smeared in the hollows and 

 blown soft against the distant hills. All 

 through the air thrilled the glamor of 

 those new-born hopes that attend the god- 

 dess, and I wanted to give tongue with 

 Bose when I found him quartering the 

 barberry slope of the upper pasture with 

 clumsy gallop. 



He had led me plump into fairy-land at 



the first plunge, for the brown leaves 

 100 



