WILD PASTURES 



corked that bottle which held the heat 

 genie confined, and he was looming 

 from a black nimbus below into white 

 piles of cumulus at the zenith. His 

 eyes flashed red lightnings and he spoke 

 in thunder tones. Somewhere over yon- 

 der I heard the great crested flycatcher 

 crying "Grief," "Grief," again. It 

 might be my turn next, and I patted 

 the great orchid good-by and tiptoed 

 through the sphagnum and climbed the 

 hill again. It had been a brief but 

 pleasant trip. A butterfly that found a 

 tongue and a turtle that ate terrapin with 

 a happy smile may belong with the 

 genie in the Arabian Nights, or with 

 Alice in Wonderland, or both. I know 

 that I found them at the fountain head, 

 under the grove of immemorial pines, 

 below the brow of .the terminal moraine 

 where sleep the fathers of the hamlet. 

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