WOODLAND PATHS 



I have misnamed the cassandra. I 

 thought it dour and morose ; but that was 

 in late April. Now it is early May, and 

 by some trick of the bog pukwudgies the 

 gloom of its still clinging last year's leaves 

 is lightened into a soft sage green that is 

 prim indeed, but lovely in its primness, 

 while all underneath these leaves, in fes- 

 toons along the arching stems, are tiny 

 white blossoms that are like ropes of drip- 

 ping pearls. 



Grim and morose, indeed ! The cassan- 

 dra is like a gentle, pure-souled girl of the 

 elder Puritans, arrayed for her coming- 

 out party, her primness of garb only en- 

 hancing the beauty of soul that shines 

 through it and finds visible expression in 

 the pearls. And already lovers buzz about 

 her. Their cheerful hum is like the sound 

 of soft stringed instruments fanned by the 



warm breeze in this fairy-peopled land of 

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