WOODLAND PATHS 



back fins sticking out like the latticed sails 

 of a Chinese junk. 



I do not believe there is anywhere to be 

 heard a dreamier or more soothing lullaby 

 than that sung by the swamp tree frogs 

 of a misty April night to the tinkling ac- 

 companiment of showers pattering upon 

 the dancing surface of the pond. It begins 

 in a sigh, swells till it stirs a memory, and 

 dies away in a dream of its own happiness. 



All the warm, soothing night the swamp 

 tree frogs sang, and the showers made 

 music for the laboring sprites, and when 

 the morning came it was to a world new 

 clothed in all Easter finery. The raindrop 

 sprites had beaten and relaid the pasture 

 carpets that had been so brown with the 

 dust of last year, and now they were so 

 clean and had such a soft, green nap that 

 it was a renewed pleasure to walk on them. 



Green, too, was the wear of many of the 

 164 



