Low Tides 



one winter housed the ill-fated flying 

 squirrels of happy memory. Sweet 

 clover and tall weeds line the highways. 

 Running out from the city this after- 

 noon we passed through long walls of 

 green reminding us of English lanes — 

 chiefly because it was all so vastly 

 different. The road did not wind in 

 and out with long graceful curves, and 

 the greenery alongside was neither 

 hawthorn-hedge nor ivy; just weeds, 

 the rank sort that our hot summers 

 force in such abundance. Even the 

 lightnings, winds and rains that a little 

 while ago were playing frequent havoc 

 with our wires have abated their fury 

 in obedience to what seems to be some 

 natural law that ever halts the great 

 spring drive at this season of the year. 

 The fire upon the hearth no longer 

 burns. The old clock only changeth not. 

 Time neither waits nor rests. 



The year is in its prime, its middle 

 age. Its restless youth is past. During 

 those turbulent earlier months many a 



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