The swamp resembles a big dining-table for the birds. Wild grape-vines clamber to the tops of the highest trees, spreading umbrella-wise over the branches, and their festooned floating trailers wave as silken fringe in the play of the wind. (Song 2)

The beautiful river of poetry and song that the Indians first discovered, and later with the French, named Oubache; the winding shining river that Logan and Me-shin-go-me-sia loved; the only river that could tempt Wa-ca-co-nah from the Salamonie and Mississinewa; the river beneath whose silver sycamores and giant maples Chief Godfrey traveled many miles to pitch his camp-fires, was never more beautiful than on that perfect autumn day. (Song 14-17)

Up in the land of the Limberlost, old Mother Nature, with strident muttering, had set about her annual housecleaning. With her efficient broom, the March wind, she was sweeping every nook and cranny clean. With her scrub-bucket overflowing with April showers, she was washing the face of all creation, and if these measures failed to produce cleanliness to her satisfaction, she gave a final polish with storms of hail….
The shining river was filled to overflowing; breaking up the ice and carrying a load of refuse, it went rolling into the sea. The ice and snow had not altogether gone; but the long-pregnant earth was mothering her child….

The sap was flowing, and leafless trees were covered with swelling buds. Delicate mosses were creeping over every stick of decaying timber. The lichens on the stone and fence were freshly painted in unending shades of gray and green. Myriad flowers and vines were springing up to cover last year’s decaying leaves. “The beautiful uncut hair of graves” was creeping over meadow, spreading beside roadways, and blanketing every naked spot (Song 24).