WILD PASTURES 



atmosphere of romance. The swoon 

 of Arabian Nights is upon the land- 

 scape, and it is through such heat and 

 through such misty evasion that the 

 Caliph of Bagdad was accustomed to 

 set forth incognito to meet strange 

 adventures. 



At the foot of the hill, almost at the 

 borderland which separates this under- 

 pine world from another far different, 

 the resinous air is shut in like the genie 

 in the bottle. You feel the oppression 

 of its restraint and wonder, if like the 

 fisherman you might uncork it, if it 

 would loom aloft in a dense cloud that 

 would speak to you in a mighty voice. 

 Here my butterfly paused for the first 

 time and lighted upon the trunk of a 

 pine, head high. 



Quietly I drew near. His wings were 

 rising and falling in rhythmic uncon- 



