Spring 1944 • Vol. VI No. 2 Fiction |

The Lippia Lawn

Although its roots are clever, the trailing arbutus at Deer Lick had been wrenched out by the hogs. Only a few bruised and muddied blossoms still clung to the disordered stems. The old man and I, baskets over our arms, had come looking for good specimens to transplant. It had been a long walk, and Mr. Oliphant was fatigued. Oppressed also with his disappointment, he lowered himself carefully to the ground and sighed. "They're carniverous, you know," he said, speaking of the hogs. "They're looking for worms." Everywhere about us, the cloven hoof-prints had bitten into the soil, and it was easy to imagine the sow and her retinue lumbering to this place on their preposterously shapely legs, huffing and puffing with incessant appetite. Mr. Oliphant, a man who loved nature in an immense yet ungenerous way, complained as he lay there, shading his eyes against the sunlight that was finely sifted through the hemlock above us. "In town the chickens come to spoil my jonquils, and here the

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