WOODLAND PATHS 



the water margin to sing. Nor do I 

 know whether it was the ventriloquial call 

 of one that sounded now ahead and now 

 behind, now above and now below, or 

 whether relays of jovial invisible sprites 

 passed me on from pool to pool. What 

 I do know is that, a mile or more beyond 

 its outlet under the ooze of the little bog, 

 I found the source of my Euphrates in 

 springs that boil clear through the sand 

 and send forth the cool, pure water for 

 the delectation of all who will come to 

 drink. 



Here upon the margin I heard another 

 chorus that repaid me for all the rough 

 laughter of the wood-goblin frogs, the 

 plaintive melodies of a little flock of 

 vesper sparrows, newly arrived and very 

 happy about it. These come later than 

 the song sparrows, and bring a quality 



of wistfulness in their song which in this 

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