WILD PASTURES 



branches. Wonderful pines, these, so 

 shading the whole declivity that not 

 more than a dapple of sunlight has 

 touched the ground beneath them for a 

 century. 



Here the hepatica finds the cool, dry 

 seclusion that it loves and lifts shy blue 

 eyes to you while yet the winter ice 

 nestles beside it among the pine roots. 

 Here while the July sun distills pitchy 

 aroma from the great trees the partridge 

 berry carpets favored spots with the rich 

 green of its little round leaves, leaves 

 no bigger than the pink nail of your 

 sweetheart's little finger, a green figured 

 with the scarlet of last year's berries and 

 the white of its wee starry twin flowers. 

 Here, too, in July the pyrola lifts its 

 spike of bells like a woodland lily-of-the- 

 valley and the pipsissewa shows its waxy 

 flowers to the questing bee. 

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