THE OLD BUSH PASTURE.

Give me the old bush-path again Which wandered past my Uncle Tim’s, The dusky dells, the musky smells, That filtered through the sunset glims; The goblins crouching ’neath the trees, The bats and witches by the mill, The foolish talk of all the leaves; And let me hear the whip-poor-will Above the pines, the old new moon Hung high and dry, up there alone, And golden-clear and far and near, A-chanting in an undertone Of something half a-kin to fear, Which only whip-poor-wills can hear. Give me the old bush-path again, The barefoot days, the old-time ways, The old-time ties, the dragon-flies, And childish joys unfit for men. Plympton, Mass., September 17, 1920.