WILDWOOD WAYS 



pines, navy blue under cloud shadows, 

 hummed in the wind like bassoons; dis- 

 tant and muted cornets sang clear in the 

 maples, and all about the feathery heads 

 of the olive swamp cedars you caught 

 the faint shrilling of fifes if you would 

 but listen intently. Now and then the 

 glocken-spiel tinkled in mellow yellow 

 notes among the dry reeds on the marge, 

 but these echoed but familiar runes. The 

 tan-white bog grass that is so wild it 

 never heard the swish of scythe, sang, 

 soft and sibilant, an elfin song of the 

 lonely and untamed. 



With the singing of the wind into the 

 tender spring of the south side the day 

 grew cold with clouds. The sky was no 

 longer softly blue, but gray and chilling, 

 the pond lost its sparkle and grew purple 

 and numb with cold, and all among the 

 bare limbs you heard the song of the 

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