The Chorus of the Forest 



odor, and tlic bees coniL' s\viir)iiin<)' around them, 

 with their low, buiHl)lini>', hiiiiiiniiig imi.sie, from 

 early morning until dark. If only I were a poet, 

 how olad I ^vould be to transcribe for them the 

 song that they awake in my heart! 



Its name should be, "Where the Papaw Jjilies 

 Blow." I would tinge the sky with the i)ur])le of 

 red bud, till the air ^\ith the golden ha/.e of tree The 

 bloom, and i^erfume it with the subtle odor of tree ^""sof 



the Lilies 



pollen. In deep shadow tlie earth should lie cov- 

 ered with a crust of late snow, and in the sun MJth 

 the M'hiter snow of bloodroot bloom. Tlie velvety 

 maroon-colored lilies should distil their perfume 

 as the wind rocked them, and among tlie branches 

 the slender, gracefid, bronze-backed cuckoo should 

 propliesy A])ril showers as he searched for food. 

 From a nearby pool with crazy laughter a flock of 

 loons that had paused in migration for a drink 

 should arise from the water and jilow the noi'th- 

 ward air M'ith their sharp beaks; and an opossum 

 should nose among the leaves for frozen persim- 

 mons. And he who breatlied this enchanted air and 

 saw these things should learn that in all nature he 

 woidd find no greater treat than to linger where 

 the papaw lilies blow. I offer this gratis to any 

 one who has the genius to use it rightly. 



With the falling of the flowers the artistic pos- 

 sibility of the ]dant only begins, for there follow 

 large leaves of varied shadings, prominently veined 



83 



