BARE HILLS IN MIDWINTER 



splash the plaid of gray rock and brown 

 leaves with their rich green. Where cliff 

 meets rock jumble the two draw together 

 and fraternize, and the polypodys come 

 farther off the cliff than I have often 

 seen them, and the wood ferns grow in 

 slenderer crevices of the bare rock than 

 anywhere else that I know. 



The sun was gone from all the little 

 ravines on the way back from Hancock 

 to Great Blue, and the chill of the fern- 

 festooned shadow of the cliff that I had 

 just left seemed to go with me all along. 

 It was especially dark and chill in the 

 little gully and I reached the summit of 

 the big hill too late to find the sun. 

 There, where daybreak had breathed of 

 spring, nightfall shivered in the bite of 

 winter winds. A million electric glints 

 splintered the purple dusk to northward, 

 but there was no warmth in them even 



