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Something a father couldn't tell a daughter As well as could a mother. And again It may have been their one lapse into fancy 'Twould be too bad to make him sorry for By bringing it up to him when he was too old. Your father feels us round him with our questing, And holds us off unnecessarily, As if he didn't know what little thing Might lead us on to a discovery. It was as personal as he could be About the way he saw it was with you To say your mother, had she lived, would be As far again as from being born to bearing."

"Just one look more with what you say in mind, And I give up"; which last look came to nothing. But, though they now gave up the search forever, They clung to what one had seen in the other By inspiration. It proved there was something. They kept their thoughts away from when the maples Stood uniform in buckets, and the steam Of sap and snow rolled off the sugar house. When they made her related to the maples, It was the tree the autumn fire ran through And swept of leathern leaves, but left the bark Unscorched, unblackened, even, by any smoke. They always took their holidays in autumn. Once they came on a maple in a glade, Standing alone with smooth arms lifted up, And every leaf of foliage she'd worn Laid scarlet and pale pink about her feet. But its age kept them from considering this one.