The Flames that Clarify 



faintly green, and through the branches 

 bare the lake winds roared. You see 

 the island at its best, I think, on such 

 a day. November though would do as 

 well as March. The roses will be gone 

 and the summer crowds that frequent 

 it will not be there. But you want the 

 tree-tops bending to the pressure of 

 strong winds if you would hear the 

 organ-chords that fill that silent, solemn 

 sylvan auditorium. And you may be 

 so lucky as to find the workmen burn- 

 ing brush, the trimmings from the trees. 

 If so, the incense rising from those fires 

 will do the rest. And when you turn 

 away and retrace your steps across 

 the arching bridge that sends you back 

 to boulevards, I wager you will almost 

 wish with me you wore old overalls 

 and had to work your way along with 

 axe instead of pen; at least for one long 

 happy day. 



If you leave the island by the 

 southern bridge you will see French's 

 majestic statue of the Republic — the 



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