Title: Optional

Text: When I see birches bend to left and right across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay as ice storms do. Often you must have seen them loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises, and turn many-colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Each paragraph will be a test.

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