CHAPTER XXI 



RED CEDAR LORE 



The rough November winds which roar 

 through the bare branches of the tall trees ride 

 over spaces of sun-steeped calm in the sheltered 

 pastures. Here often summer slips back and 

 dances for a day, arrayed in all the jewels of the 

 year. The older birches toss amber-brown beads 

 upon her as she sways by, but the little ones dance 

 with her, their temples bound with gold bangles 

 which autumn gave them. The lady birches are 

 in fashion this year most surely. Now that they 

 have doffed summer draperies it is easy to note 

 their scant, close-hobbled skirts and the gleam of 

 white ankles through the most diaphanous of 

 hose. Perhaps the birches have never worn 

 things any other way but I do not seem to re- 

 member them so in past years. I always suspect 

 them of being devoted to the mode of the moment 

 and likely to appear next year in crinoline, or 

 whatever else Paris dictates. But that is true 



only of the grown-ups. The birch children are 



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