WOODLAND PATHS 



but lovelier yet are the young larch cones, 

 growing along the branches, sessile among 

 the young green of the leaves, translucent, 

 deep rose-pink cameos of cones, that re- 

 mind you of an etherealized tiny pineapple, 

 a strawberry, and a stiff blossom carved 

 in coral, all in one. 



After all, I am convinced that the 

 larches may do as they please about their 

 leaves, vote with the deciduous trees if 

 they wish to, and flout their coniferous an- 

 cestry if they will, provided they continue 

 to grow yearly on May first these most 

 delectable of cones. No blossom of the 

 year can show greater beauty. 



Baffled in my search for the origin of 

 the sensuous odor which had lured me and 

 which seemed still to drift hither and 

 thither on the variable air, I got the canoe 

 and paddled over alongshore to a cove that 



I know, a new-moon shaped hiding place 

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