Still there’s a sense of blossoms yet unborn,
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.
At times, a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate
Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,
If from a beech’s heart,
A blue-eyed [v]Dryad, stepping forth, should say,
“Behold me! I am May!”
Henry Timrod.
AMONG THE CLIFFS
It was a critical moment. There was a stir other than that of the wind among the pine needles and dry leaves that carpeted the ground.
The wary wild turkeys lifted their long necks with that peculiar cry of half-doubting surprise so familiar to a sportsman, then all was still for an instant. The world was steeped in the noontide sunlight, the mountain air tasted of the fresh [v]sylvan fragrance that pervaded the forest, the foliage blamed with the red and gold of autumn, the distant [v]Chilhowee heights were delicately blue.
That instant’s doubt sealed the doom of one of the flock. As the turkeys stood in momentary suspense, the sunlight gilding their bronze feathers to a brighter sheen, there was a movement in the dense undergrowth. The flock took suddenly to wing,—a flash from among the leaves, the sharp crack of a rifle, and one of the birds fell heavily over the bluff and down toward the valley.
The young mountaineer’s exclamation of triumph died in his throat. He came running to the verge of the crag, and looked down ruefully into the depths where his game had disappeared.