THE ROAD TO MUDDY POND 



west of Boston, but it is rare enough to 

 be called occasional. Where the Betula 

 alba is as common, almost, as the grass 

 under foot, the Betula lutea may not 

 occur once in a square mile. I know it 

 only on cold northern hillsides or in 

 dense swamps where cool springs bathe 

 its roots all summer long. There the 

 silvery yellow, silky shreds of its outer 

 bark mark its trunk as a thing of beauty, 

 winter or summer. You feel like stroking 

 these curls as if they were those of a 

 flaxen-haired youngster lost in the deep 

 woods and brave but a bit troubled and 

 in need of comfort from one who knows. 

 That is the only impression the yellow 

 birch had ever made on me in all my 

 greetings of it, yet here it was wearing 

 a semblance of young leaves in this wine- 

 sweet February air. 



Even after the cool depths of the woods 



