230 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



and that runic rhyme of the pines is lulled for a 

 time. He seems as transparent as they and is 

 nothing but the ghost of a moth as he passes from 

 one head of goldenrod bloom to another. Some 

 mornings he vanishes in the amber glow that 

 ushers in the daylight and then I think I have 

 merely been dreaming of lepidoptera. This 

 morning he did not appear, either in the early 

 gray or the amber glow, and I went out to look 

 for him. The waning moon hung wan and white 

 in the west, a white paper ghost of a moon that 

 had no light left in her. All the east had the 

 clear translucent yellow radiance of the yellow 

 birch leaves, a cool, pale gold, and between lay 

 dead the morning mists, chilled to white frost on 

 all the pasture shrubs and the level reaches of 

 brown grass. Along the hedgerow of barberry, 

 wild cherry, raspberry, hardback, meadow sweet, 

 sweet fern and goldenrod that deck the ancient 

 wall I looked for the white radiance of my moth's 

 wings in vain, and I pictured him as dead among 

 the frozen grasses, and mourned him thus. 



The day grew with all the wonderful still 

 radiance which so often follows a frosty morn- 

 ing in October. The pine trees could not sing; 



