Douglas stood straight as the tamaracks, his feet sinking in "the little moss," while from his heart he quoted Constance Skinner's wonderful poem: "_I descend through the forest alone. Rose-flushed are the willows, stark and a-quiver, In the warm sudden grasp of Spring; Like a woman when her lover has suddenly, swiftly taken her. I hear the secret rustle of little leaves, Waiting to be born. The air is a wind of love From the wings of eagles mating---- O eagles, my sky is dark with your wings! The hills and the waters pity me, The pine-trees reproach me. The little moss whispers under my feet, "Son of Earth, Brother, Why comest thou hither alone?" Oh, the wolf has his mate on the mountain---- Where art thou, Spring-daughter? I tremble with love as reeds by the river, I burn as the dusk in the red-tented west, I call thee aloud as the deer calls the doe, I await thee as hills wait the morning, I desire thee as eagles the storm; I yearn to thy breast as night to the sea, I claim thee as the silence claims the stars. O Earth, Earth, great Earth, Mate of God and mother of me, Say, where is she, the Bearer of Morning, My Bringer of Song? Love in me waits to be born, Where is She, the Woman?_ "'Where is she, the Woman?' The answer is 'Here!' 'Bearer of Morning,' 'Bringer of Song,' I adore you!" "Oh Douglas, how beautiful!" cried Leslie. "My Man, can we think of anything save ourselves to-day? Can we make that basket?" "It would be a bad start to give up our first undertaking together," he said. "Of course!" she cried. "We must! We simply must find things. Father may call any minute. Let go my hand and follow behind me. Keep close, Douglas!" "I should go before to clear the way," he suggested. "No, I may miss rare flowers if you do," she objected. "Go slowly, so I can watch before and overhead." "Yes!" she answered. "There! There, Douglas!" "Ah! There they are!" he exulted. "But I can't take them!" she protested. "Only a few, Leslie. Look before you! See how many there are!" he said. "Douglas, could there be more wonderful flowers than the moccasins and slippers?" she asked. "Scarcely more wonderful; there might be more delicate and lovely!" "Farther! Let us go farther!" she urged. Her cry closed the man's arms around her.