WOODLAND PATHS 



have again mustered courage to invade 

 the place, I leave the little hollow to the 

 wilderness that still enfolds dreams of the 

 one-time occupant. In its sheltered nooks 

 some of the day's golden warmth will re- 

 main, even until the sun comes again. I 

 cannot tell where my busy butterflies will 

 spend the night, but if I were one of them 

 I should flip back into the dooryard of the 

 pioneer's homestead and cuddle down in 

 the great heart of one of those rosettes of 

 mullein leaves, there to slumber, warm 

 and serene, wrapped to the eyes in its 

 blankets of soft wool. 



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