WILDWOOD WAYS 



of the observatory looms clear and you 

 begin to notice other details of the gray 

 earth beneath your feet. The south wind 

 has brought and left with you for a brief 

 space the atmosphere of the Bermudas, 

 and you need only the joyous hubbub of 

 bird songs to think it June instead of 

 January. Instead there is a breathless 

 silence that is like resignation and a por- 

 tent all in one. Breathing this soft air 

 in the golden glow of daybreak it seems 

 as if there could never be such things as 

 zero temperature and northwest gales; 

 but the whole top of the hill keeps silence. 

 It knows. 



As the day grows brighter you can see 

 the little scrub-oaks that make the sum- 

 mit plateau their home crouch and settle 

 themselves together for the endurance 

 test which is their winter lot. They have 

 opened their hearts to the south rain 

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