He stopped now and then to
part the heavy fronds down to their roots in the dank moss, seeing
again, as he had told the editor, the weird SECOND twilight through
their miniature stems, and the microcosm of life that filled it. But,
even while paying this tribute to the accuracy of the unknown poetess,
he was, like his predecessor, haunted more strongly by the atmosphere
and melody of her verse. Its spell was upon him, too. Unlike Mr. Hamlin,
he did not sing. He only halted once or twice, silently combing his
straight narrow beard with his three fingers, until the action seemed
to draw down the lines of his face into limitless dejection, and an
inscrutable melancholy filled his small gray eyes. The few birds which
had hailed Mr. Hamlin as their successful rival fled away before the
grotesque and angular half-length of Mr. Bowers, as if the wind had
blown in a scarecrow from the distant farms.
Suddenly he observed the figure of a woman, with her back towards him,
leaning motionless against a tree, and apparently gazing intently in the
direction of Green Springs.
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