Shooting 119 



because she never found it except underneath 

 a robust oak, pushing up through matted leaves 

 and seeming to be anchored to a feeding oak 

 root tw^o or three inches below ground. Un- 

 canny as it was, she loved it, almost better than 

 the real sweet-smelling flowers, — loved to 

 watch the white stalks push up, the fairy pipe 

 shape itself at the end of them, unfold, and 

 gradually bend down, down, so rain might not 

 wash away its pollen and make it unfruitful. 

 When every stalk had blossomed — sometimes 

 there were a dozen — the clump died, pipes as 

 well as stems withering to dust. But Patsy 

 knew there was seed somewhere in the dust. 

 She could not see it, of course — but if there 

 was not, how should there be Indian pipes 

 next year, and all the years? 



