trees how remote, aerial,, and floating ! as if 

 growing in the skies, with no roots' fast hold of 

 the earth. Filling the valley, conforming to 

 every bend and stretch of the creek, lay the 

 breath of the water, motionless and sheeted, a 

 spirit stream, hovering over the sluggish current 

 a moment, before it should float upward and 

 melt away. It was cold, too, as a wraith might 

 be, colder than the water, for the June sun had 

 not yet risen over the swamp. 



At the bridge where the road crossed was a 

 dam which backed the creek out into an acre or 

 more of pond. Not a particle of mud discolored 

 the water ; but it was dark, and as it came 

 tumbling, foaming over the moss-edged gates it 

 lighted up a rich amber color, the color of strong 

 tea. In the half chill of the dawn the old bridge 

 lay veiled in smoking spray, in a thin, rising 

 vapor of spicy odors, clean, medicinal odors, as 

 of the brewing of many roots, the fragrance of 

 shores of sedges, ferns, and aromatic herbs steeped 

 in the slow, soft tide. And faint across the 

 creek, the road, and the fields lay the pondy smell 

 of spatter-docks. 



I pushed out from the sandy cove and lay 

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