WILD PASTURES 



So, when my lone quail sat on a rock 

 in the pasture, tipped his head back a 

 little, swelled his white throat and 

 whistled, round and clear, I went out 

 to meet him, scanning the sky meanwhile 

 for a change of weather. The sky of 

 the day before had been like a brass 

 bowl shut down over the gasping land. 

 Shrubs of the upland hung their leaves 

 piteously, the tougher herbs wilted, and 

 the tenderer ones dried up and died. 



On such days when the long summer 

 drought has wreaked its worst, when the 

 parched pasture lies on its back, open- 

 mouthed, gasping for water, when even 

 the pond which has given so freely for 

 the refreshment of the pasture people 

 has shrunk back upon itself till a rod- 

 wide rim of gravel and rough stones 

 forbids them to come down and drink, I 

 love to go down to the water's edge and 



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