Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/294



... is the last survivor of a race Strong in their forest-pride when I was young. I can remember, when for miles around, In place of those smooth meadows and corn-fields, There stood ten thousand tall and stately trees, Such as had braved the winds of March, the bolt Sent by the summer lightning, and the snow Heaping for weeks their boughs. Even in the depth Of hot July the glades were cool; the grass, Yellow and parched elsewhere, grew long and fresh, Shading wild strawberries and violets,