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THE MARSH DWELLERS 
THE sweet, hot, wild scent of the marsh came up to 
us. [t 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 
