The Sign of he Shad-bus§ 
wraith in the leafless woods; it has odor, too, and 
color. But it is something more than all of these 
that the soft blowing shad-bush means to me. Per- 
haps the something is in its name, — because it links 
my inland round with the round of the sea; and 
because it links this present narrowing round with 
the wide-winging round of the past. 
At the sign of the shad-bush I know the fish are 
running, —the sturgeon up the Delaware; the shad 
into Cohansey Creek ; and through Five-Forks Sluice, 
these soft, stirring nights, I know the catfish are 
slipping. Is there any boy now in Lupton’s Mead- 
ows to watch them come? to listen in the moonlit 
quiet for the splash, splash, as the fish pass up 
through the main ditch toward the dam? 
At the sign of the shad-bush how swiftly the tides 
of life rise! how mysteriously their currents run! 
drifting, flying, flowing, creeping — colors, perfumes, 
forms, and voices— across the heavens, over the 
earth, and down the deep, dim aisles of the sea! and 
down the deep, dim aisles of our memories. 
