THE ROAD TO MUDDY POND 



pushed its black twigs up through the 

 moss and held its leathery leaves, brown 

 and discouraged, drooping yet persistent. 

 The cassandra always reminds me of thin, 

 elderly New England spinsters who enjoy 

 poor health. It is so homely and solemn; 

 even in joyous June it never cracks a 

 smile, but is just as lugubrious and sal- 

 low and barely holds on to an unprofit- 

 able life. And all about, indeed in many 

 places crowding the very life out of it, 

 grow these brave, virid, white cedars. 

 You 'd think it might catch geniality from 

 them. Their footing is as precarious as 

 its own. Of course, now, the ice has set 

 all things in its firm grip, but in summer 

 there is little enough to hold up the 

 swamp cedars and it is only by entwining 

 their roots and growing them firmly to- 

 gether in a mat that they are able to keep 

 their sprightly uprightness. So closely are 

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