IN A PALACE OF REEDS. 119 



it — Will and I — while rambling in the valley, 

 and, by virtue of the right of discovery, quietly 

 appropriated it for our indwelling during the 

 fair weather of the delightful Georgian spring. 

 Imagine two wild plum trees in full sweet- 

 scented bloom standing twenty-five feet apart, 

 with a thick-leaved muscadine vine flung over 

 them like a richly wrought mantle. The boles 

 of the trees are gray and mossy, fluted like 

 antique pillars. The ground is flecked with 

 rugs of dark Southern moss through which the 

 violets and spring beauties have found their 

 way. The keen odor of sassafras and the 

 delicate perfume of tulip honey comes along 

 the air. You stand on the threshold of this 

 natural palace, and looking through the 

 tender gloom of its arched hall you see the 

 cool river flowing and singing on. There are 

 bees in the air, wild bees whose home is 

 in some great hollow plane-tree not far away. 

 You hear the dreamful hum of tiny wings. 

 You see the plum flowers shake and let fall 

 their golden pollen dust, and the reeds, the 

 tall gold-and-green reeds, rise all around the 

 palace forming its walls. The earth is warm, 

 the sky is pure and cloudless. Deep in the 

 brake a hermit-thrush is calling. A vireo be- 

 yond the river quavers mournfully. 



The Palace of Reeds was handsomely fur- 

 nished with a mossy log for sofa, two camp- 

 stools and a low canvas table. An easel stood 

 for most of the day in the clear light of the 

 west, opening just above the babbling water. 

 It is worth noting, because now it is a fra- 

 grant memory, that the drawing-board was 

 of red cedar. The box of moist water-colors, 

 the bird-sketches, the portfolio of pencil notes, 



