12 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



visible on the slope below me has all the leaves 

 of this hue. Attractive not only to my eyes but 

 also to those of the bumble-bee, the low flying 

 butterflies and other nectar loving insects, the 

 delicately hued prunella or heal-all lives and 

 dies in many a secluded glen, on many a shaded 

 slope of this old woods pasture. 



I stretch myself out face downward upon the 

 sward by the side of the boulders. I thrust my 

 nose deep among the grass roots. I inhale the 

 odors of the earth, earthy. Not as penetrating 

 are they as in early spring when they arise 

 freely from the frost-rifted sod, yet they are 

 present in sufficient force to be easily gathered 

 by my sense of smell. I stretch out my arms 

 and burrow my fingers deep into the soil. Close 

 to the earth which I love so well thus do I rest, 

 close as I can get without being buried beneath 

 her bosom. One of countless billions of para- 

 sites thus do I render homage this hour unto 

 my mother. I tickle her crust. An ant, another 

 of her parasites, tickles meanwhile my skin. 

 Perchance a parasite of third degree tickles the 

 skin of the ant. What matters it? We are all 

 from her. My span of arms outstretched can 

 embrace but an infinitesimal part of her form. 

 Would that I could reach around and for once 

 hold her firmly in a fast embrace. Soon enough 

 will she hold me thus. 



Day after day I tramp over her crust, seldom 



