The Chorus of the Forest 



odor, and the bees come swarming around them, 

 with their low, bumbhng, humming music, from 

 early morning until dark. If only I were a poet, 

 how glad I would be to transcribe for them the 

 song that they awake in my heart! 



Its name should be, "Where the Papaw Lilies 

 Blow." I would tinge the sky with the purple of 

 red bud, fill tlie air with the golden haze of tree The 



bloom, and perfume it with the subtle odor of tree ^°"^ °* 



the Lihes 

 pollen. In deep shadow the earth should lie cov- 

 ered M'ith a crust of late snow, and in the sun with 

 the whiter snow of bloodroot bloom. The velvety 

 maroon-colored lilies should distil their perfume 

 as the wind rocked them, and among the branches 

 the slender, graceful, bronze-backed cuckoo should 

 prophesy April showers as he searched for food. 

 From a nearby pool with crazy laughter a flock of 

 loons that had paused in migration for a drink 

 should arise from the water and plow the north- 

 ward air with their sharp beaks; and an opossum 

 should nose among the leaves for frozen persim- 

 mons. And he who breathed this enchanted air and 

 saw these things should learn that in all nature he 

 would find no greater treat than to linger where 

 the papaw lilies blow. I offer this gratis to any 

 one who has the genius to use it rightly. 



With the falling of the flowers the artistic pos- 

 sibility of the plant only begins, for there follow 

 large leaves of varied shadings, prominently veined 



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