that masonry out of an unseen quarry, that frolic architecture of
the snow, nightwork of the North Wind, fierce artificer. In a few
hours he had mimicked with wild and savage fancy the structures
which human art can scarce rear, stone by stone, in an age: white
bastions curved with projected roof round every windward stake or
tree or door; the gateway overtopped with tapering turrets; coop
and kennel hung mockingly with Parian wreaths; a swanlike form
investing the hidden thorn.

From one upper window under the blue sky in the distance she could
see what the poet had never beheld: a field of hemp shocks looking
like a winter camp, dazzlingly white. The scene brought to her mind
some verses written by a minor Kentucky writer on his own soil and
people.

SONG OF THE HEMP

Ah, gentle are the days when the Year is young
And rolling fields with rippling hemp are green
And from old orchards pipes the thrush at morn.
No land, no land like this is yet unsung
Where man and maid at twilight meet unseen
And Love is born.

Oh, mighty summer days and god of flaming tress
When in the fields full-headed bends the stalk,
And blossoms what was sown!
No land, no land like this for tenderness
When man and maid as one together walk
And Love is grown.