WILD PASTURES 



out a faint but characteristic odor by 

 which you might hunt it across country 

 for a lustrum of miles. The sooty 

 emanation from my neighbors' chimneys 

 is pungent in my nostrils, though their 

 houses are a mile away. I think I can 

 tell which is which, for the fireplace 

 smell differs from that of the furnace, 

 as does that of the parlor stove from the 

 range. Agreeably these are forgotten, 

 for something has crushed sassafras 

 leaves over on the pasture knoll and the 

 fine fragrance comes to drive away 

 thoughts of the others. 



As the night was gray, which foretells 

 rain, so the morning breaks crimson, 

 which announces it. No bird heralds 

 this dawn, no chirping insect sends its 

 voice questing through its shades. The 

 sky hardly lightens up; it is rather that 

 the darkness turns red. Nor does the 

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