WOODLAND PATHS 



nary senses. The darkness gives us 

 antennae. 



The April showers touch with caressing 

 fingers the chords of all things and bring 

 music from them, each according to its 

 kind. In the open forest under deciduous 

 trees the dead leaves thrummed a ghostly 

 dirge like that of the " Dead March in 

 Saul." Winter ghosts marched to it in 

 solemn procession out of the woodland. 

 Memories of sleet and deep snow, ice 

 storm, and heartbreaking frost, tramped 

 soggily in sullen procession over the misty 

 ridge and on northward toward the bar- 

 ren lands to the north of Hudson's Bay. 

 Thrilling through this solemn march below 

 I heard the laughing fantasia of young 

 drops upon bourgeoning twigs above, 

 dirge and ditty softening in distance to a 

 mystic music, a rune of the ancient earth. 



In the open pasture the tune changed 

 160 



