TURTLE-HEAD AND JEWEL-WEED 127 



over that these constellations are as whitely 

 bright to small eyes that look from below, from 

 the ooze of the bog or the roots of marsh grass, 

 as they are to our great eyes that look from 

 above. Of an early September morning in the 

 clear stillness I feel that they loom like varnished 

 planets of the sky in their own lowly heaven of 

 coruscating dew that coats all things with a 

 milky way of white fire drops, a dew that has 

 risen all night from the warmth below and, 

 chilled by the cold blue void of space, has hesi- 

 tated on every leaf and twig, frightened into im- 

 mobility; infinitesimal drops as shining white and 

 as close together as the stars in a winter night 

 sky. At dawn all the bog world is crusted with 

 this dew. 



A great gravelly hill rises abruptly from the 

 southern edge of this boggy home of shy plants, 

 clothed with century old pines. These are so 

 high and so dense that the sun's rays cannot come 

 through with any directness, instead they are so 

 filtered and reflected from gloss of leaf and gray 

 of trunk that they have no power to dry up this 

 dew, they simply light it up, nor can the little 

 morning winds that play at surf bathing in the 

 pine tops, dancing hand in hand, ducking with 



