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Forest | ||
| Lacy club moss on the ground, Ferns of every shade of green, Flaky fungi all around, But the deer are seldom seen. Streams are rippling clear and bright Past the dams the beaver made. Birds, it seems, have taken flight To some other friendly glade. Pines are fragrant as we pass Down the trail and through the wood. 'Tis like some enchanting class That we wish we understood. | ||
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