OUR COUNTRY LIFE 



here the Jack-in-the-pulpit pops up his stiff young head 

 and the May apple unfolds her bright umbrella leaf; 

 here the white trillium nods her greeting to the breeze 

 and the maidenhair sisters uncurl their tresses; 

 here when the Indian pipe appears for its brief day and 

 the viburnum changes to pale pink, when the hazel 

 brush is rosy and only the bramble green, when the 

 maple leaves form a rich tapestry upon the pathway, 

 is our favorite retreat. Even in the winter, white with 

 untrodden snow, crossed by the sharp shadows which 

 the bare branches make, or marked by hieroglyphics 

 which only the learned can read, it still has a beauty 

 all its own and is to us a place of enchantment. 



Many names have been suggested for this sequestered 

 walk: "Charle's Way," "Lover's Lane," "The Indian 

 Trail," among others less appropriate; but it has 

 grown to be known simply as "The Trail." At the 

 end of the long vista, the Trail turns abruptly and 

 continues under a magnificent arching oak, across a 

 brook guarded by great granite bowlders, where beyond 

 an open gate, lies the upper garden. 



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