White Magic by Marjorie Pickthall — Read

Lobelia is the new residential suburb on the outskirts of a new town, / which is itself on the outskirts of most things. The Big Woods come / right down to the streets of Lobelia; bears have been seen on Frontenac / Boulevard. Yes, Lobelia is pretty new. But not so new that you'd expect / to smell kinnikinnick there.

Yet, one June evening, a savour of that tobacco plant passed along / Frontenac Boulevard and down Centre Street and up Magnetwan Avenue. Here / and there, an old-timer, relegated to carpet slippers and a back / bedroom, sniffed it, and dreamed of prairie and poplar-bluff and the / Blackfoot brave outside the H. B. C. Store. Leigh Harvey, busy lifting / dandelions from his beautiful lawn, with a dental-looking instrument, / dropped it and knelt motionless in the growing dew. He set his big hands / on his hip, because they trembled suddenly. To himself, he whispered, / "It _couldn't_ be him-come at last-after all these years."