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centuries, where seeds have sent up new 

 shoots to grow slowly but surely, is na- 

 ture's original material, out of which fresh- 

 ness is made. Under the dense canopy, in 

 the dreamy gloom, listen well, and you may 

 hear the sweet sound of labor going on — 

 the nemorum iminmir — underground, high 

 in the tree-tops, far and near, roots, boles, 

 branches, leaves, all strenuously drawing 

 upon the invisible veins of earth and air. 



A rich, musty smell pervades every 

 space between the clumps of dusky under- 

 growth (where, beside a rotten log, the In- 

 dian turnip has come up here and yonder), 

 an exhalation wandering and elusive, not 

 known outside of the savage wilderness. 

 It is an effluence good for the imagination, 

 fertilizing it, sowing it with ancient spores 

 of originality. Like a whiff of song from 

 Arcadia comes the breeze through that 

 crepuscular haunt of slumber and growth, 

 whispering old Greek phrases to immemo- 

 rial tunes. 



I have found in the Southern mountain 

 regions many pathless wood-nooks, set 

 aslant against the rocky ridges, where not 

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