Keeping One's Place 



counted and not the recollections of things seen 

 and felt? Not that of the dimness that preceded 

 dawn, the bay all silver smoke, the city looming 

 faintly on the hill. Not that of mornings when 

 every branch was swinging in the wind, when 

 there was the scurry of white clouds from the 

 northeast, and little waves came spanking in 

 towards shore? Or the noontide drowse of pas- 

 tures, or the golden light of afternoon that tipped 

 the spires of cedars and the crown of oaks as it 

 came shding down the fields? And what of the 

 steady drip of rain so close above the roof, the 

 fine sift of mist through open windows, the gur- 

 gle of the stream beneath the stars, the rustle of 

 the trees outside? As I sat that night upon my 

 porch and watched the moonlight take the vaUey, 

 I knew that I should find these hard to leave. 



Suppose then, that I abided by my choice, 

 cherished it and kept it. At least I had the sense 

 to know that I should be making no mistake. 

 Vulgarity and commonness alone were irretriev- 

 able. The more one tried to hide them, the more 

 blatantly they showed. But this place of mine 

 was different. It simply didn't know. It had 



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