THE BEECH WOODS 



migrants to the Beech Woods and 

 flowers of the season had come to re- 

 place those of the awakening days of 

 Spring. The grass has grown longer 

 in the hay field and the young* clover is 

 now a mass of red and white. The days 

 soon followed when the song of the 

 mower thrilled the morning hours and 

 often far into the dusk. The sweet 

 scent of the new-mown hay floated to 

 the woods at evening, mingling with 

 the scent of ferns and flowers. The 

 poet living up the road, in her poem, 

 " The Hayfield," part of which is quoted 

 here, tells most exquisitely of the pass- 

 ing of the grass : 



Witli slender arms outstretchiiig In the sun 



The grass lies dead; 

 The wind walks tenderly and stirs not one 



Frail fallen head. 



No more they part their arms and wreathe 

 them close 



Again, to shield 

 Some love-full little nest— a dainty house 



Hid in a field. 



For them no more the splendour of the storm, 



The fair delights 

 Of moon and star-shine, glimmering faint and 

 warm 



On summer nights. 



46 



