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13 STORIES AT EVENING (A suburban mother tells stories to her son) “My great great grandpa Jethro walked The wild savannahs deep in grass; He saw the herds of buffalo File westward through the mountain pass. “Great grandpa William in his time Remembered pigeons wild and gray Whose thousand wings beat out the sun The morning that they flew away. “My grandpa Frederick could recall The wild trout flashing in their school; He set his stick of dynamite And scooped a hundred from the pool. “My father, Douglas, saw the trees. Across this bare, eroded land, He saw the tulip tree and ash, The spruce and hemlock—virgin stand. “And I myself at morning saw The chestnut on the ridge—its living green— The blue-fringed gentian . . . “Listen, now, my son— Stories at evening—wonders I have seen; And, as we sit, look sharp and well remember— Your son may hear the strangest tale of all: How little rabbits hopped across our garden, How grass grew by the wall, And there, one night, when you were six or seven, You heard a Bob White call.” ...

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