Low Tides 



roadside, to be blamed, because it is 

 not tall and green and fruitful as its 

 neighbor in the well-tilled field the 

 other side the fence? The grains 

 from which they sprang were equally- 

 sound last spring and assuredly held 

 within themselves like possibilities. 

 All we know is that one found con- 

 genial conditions, the other not. Had 

 that big oak the thunderbolt destroyed 

 a better right to live than its neighbor 

 that endures ? 



I have spoken of the odor of the 

 hyacinth as invariably recalling child- 

 hood days. The whirring of the elec- 

 tric fan, which we on occasions set in 

 motion to freshen up the air inside at 

 this season of the year, with equally 

 unfailing certainty carries me instantly 

 to a summer spent in Washington, 

 D. C. Once upon a time a message 

 came over the wire in the month of 

 August from the then summer capital 

 at Beverley Farms, Massachusetts. 

 It was signed by William Howard Taft 



[49] 



