X 



THE MARSH DWELLERS 



THE sweet, hot, wild scent of the marsh came up to 

 us. It was compounded of sun and wind and the clean 

 dry smell of miles and miles of bleaching sedges, all 

 mingled with the seethe and steam of a green blaze 

 of growth that had leaped from the ooze to meet 

 the summer. Through it all drifted tiny elusive puffs 

 of fragrance from flowers hidden under thickets of 

 willow and elderberry. The smooth petals of wild 

 roses showed among the rushes, like coral set in jade. 

 On the sides of burnt tussocks, where the new grass 

 grew sparse as hair on a scarred skull, rue anemones 

 trembled above their trefoil leaves. When the world 

 was young they sprang from the tears which Aphro- 

 dite shed over the body of slain Adonis. Still the pale 

 wind-driven flowers sway as if shaken by her sobs, 

 and have the cold whiteness of him dead. 



The leaves of the meadow rue, like some rare fern, 

 showed here and there, but the clustered white flowers 

 had not yet bloomed, nor the flat yellow blossoms of 

 the shrubby cinquefoil. There were thickets of aronia 

 or chokeberry, whose flat white blossoms and reddish 

 bark showed its kinship to the apple tree. Among 

 the pools gleamed marsh marigolds fresh from the 

 mint of May, while deep down in the grass at the foot 

 of the tussocks were white violets, short-stemmed 



