The
foliage was still unfolding, patterned with fresh creases, the prey of
a continuous, frail unrest. Little streams chuckled through the
underbrush, and from the fusion of woodland whisperings bird notes
detached themselves, soft flutings and liquid runs, that gave another
expression to the morning's blithe mood.
Between the woods there were stretches of open country, velvet smooth,
with the trees slipped down to where the rivers ran. The grass was as
green as sprouting grain, and a sweet smell of wet earth and seedling
growths came from it. Cloud shadows trailed across it, blue blotches
moving languidly. It was the young earth in its blushing promise,
fragrant, rain-washed, budding, with the sound of running water in the
grass and bird voices dropping from the sky.
With their lighter wagons they passed the ox trains plowing stolidly
through the mud, barefoot children running at the wheel, and women
knitting on the front seat. The driver's whip lash curled in the air,
and his nasal "Gee haw" swung the yoked beasts slowly to one side.
Then came detachments of Santa Fe traders, dark men in striped serapes
with silver trimmings round their high-peaked hats.
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