WILD PASTURES 



never see a partridge in the sleek lane, 

 and if by chance the red fox crosses it 

 he does so gingerly and as if it were 

 hot under foot. In the other, however, 

 the fox may slink for an hour unscared, 

 waiting with watchful eye on the neigh- 

 boring chicken coop, the red squirrel 

 builds his nest in the cedar, and the 

 partridge leads her young brood among 

 the blackberry bushes of an early 

 morning. 



The azalea sends out its white fra- 

 grance from the one lane, and never a 

 buttercup, even, nods to the wind in the 

 other; yet you love the smooth shorn 

 one best. It talks to you of the homely 

 life of the farm, the lazy cattle drowsing 

 contentedly to the barn at milking time 

 while the farmer's boy sings as he puts 

 up the bars behind them. You love it 

 best because, however much you may 

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