neath the drooping hemlocks, stopping in their headlong zeal to snatch some trembling cluster of anemone, nodding from its velvety bed of moss. Now plunging down on hands and knees, shedding innocent blood among an unsuspecting colony of fragile bloom-those glowing blossoms so welcome in the early spring! Who does not know the bloodroot-that shy recluse hiding away among the mountain nooks, that emblem of chaste purity with its bridal ring of purest gold? How often have I seen its tender leaf-wrapped buds lifting the matted leaves, and spreading their galaxy of snowy stars along the woodland path! Then there was the shy arbutus, too. another such a darling of a flower? Where in all the world's bouquet is there And where in all New England does that darling show so full and sweet a face as in its home upon that sunny slope I have in mind, and know so well? Was ever such a fragrant tufted carpet spread beneath a hesitating foot? Even now, along the lichen-dappled wall upon the summit, I see the lingering strip of snow, gritty and speckled, and at its very edge, hiding beneath the covering leaves, those modest little faces looking out at me-faces which seemed to blush a deeper pink at their rude discovery. Where was the nook in all that hill-side woods that we left unsearched in our April ramblings? How well I recall the "tat-tat" upon the dry carpet of beech leaves, as the delicate anemone in my hand is dashed by a falling drop! Lost in eager occupation, we had not observed the shadow that had stolen through the forest, and now as we look out through the trees we see the steel-blue warning of the coming shower, and feel the first gust of the tell-tale breeze. How the willows wave and gleam against the deep gray clouds, so weirdly reflected in the gliding stream beneath, like an open seam to another sky! See the silvery flashes of that flock of pigeons circling against the lurid background. No, we can not stop to see them, for the rain-drops begin to patter thick and fast. Away we scamper to the shelter of the overhanging rocks. The lowering sky rolls above us through the branches. The glassy surface of the brook takes on a leaden hue, as the raincloud drags its misty veil across the distant meadows. The brown leaves jump and spatter at my feet, and the blue liverwort flowers on right and left duck their heads like little living things dodging the pelting rain-drops. Oh, the lovely fickleness of an April day! Even now the distant hill is lit up by the bursting sun. Nearer and nearer the gleam creeps across the landscape, chasing the shower away, and in a moment more the meadows glow with a freshened green, and the trees stand transfigured in glistening beads flashing in the sunbeams. April's woods are teeming with life of bird and plant, if one will only look for them. On every side the ferns, curled up all winter in their dormant sleep, unroll their spiral sprays and reach out for the welcome sun. The spicy colt's-foot lifts its downy leaves among the mossy rocks and crevices, and its homely flower just peeps above the ground, and with a lin gering glance at the blushing Rue anemone close by, hangs its humble head, never to look up again. High above us the eccentric cottonwood-tree dangles its long speckled plumes, so silvery white. Now we hear a mellow drumming sound, as some unsuspecting partridge, concealed among the undergrowth near by, beats his resonant breast. Could we but get a glimpse of him, we would see him simulate the barn-yard gobbler, as with proud strut and spreading tail he disports himself upon some fallen log or mossy rock. Perhaps, too, that coy mate is near, admiring his show of gallantry, and holding a sly flirtation. Look at this craggy precipice of rock, lost above among the green-tasselled evergreens, and trickling with crystal beads from every drooping sprig of moss. How its rugged surface is painted with the mottled lichens of every hue, here like a faint tinge of cool sage-green, and there in large brown blotches of rich color! See the fringe of ferns that bursts from the fissure across its surface. There the trillium hangs its three-cleft flower of rich maroon; and later we shall see the fern-like spray of Solomon's-seal swinging its little row of straw-colored bells from the ledge above. Airy columbines, too, shall float their scarlet pendants on fragile stems, and with their graceful nod tell of the slightest breeze, when all other signs shall fail. What is that cinnamon-brown bird that hops along the stone wall yonder? Now he alights upon the tulip-tree, and swells his speckled breast in a series of short experiments-a broken song, in which every note or call has its twin echo. A "mocking-thrush" he is indeed, for he mimics his own song from morn till night in all the thickets and pasture-lands. Take care there! GATHERING ARBUTUS. why, you almost stepped upon that feath- | elly bed below! Ah! what scientific anery tuft of "Dutchman's breeches." Oh, show me the man that dared to clothe this sweet blossom in such an ignominious title as that! Where is the Dutchman that ever wore unmentionables of such rare and exquisite pink satin as that pale dicentra wears? No wonder their little broken hearts droop at the insult! That grotesque Jack-in-the-pulpit, rising above that crumbling log, is named more to my mind. There he stands beneath his striped canopy, and preaches to me a sermon on the well-remembered rashness of my youth in trifling with that subterranean bulb from which he grows. But I ignored his warning in those early days. I only knew that a nice boy across the way seemed very fond of those little Indian turnips, called them sugar-roots, and said that they were full of honey. And as he bit off his eager mouthful, and refused to let me taste, I sought one for myself, and, generous boy that he was, he showed me where to find the buried treaIt was like a small flat turnip, an innocent-looking affair (and so was the nice boy's modelled piece of apple, by-theway). But oh! the sudden revelation of the red-hot reservoir of chain-lightning that crammed that innocent bulb! sure. How well we remember those tramps along the meadow brook: the dark still holes beneath the overhanging rocks, where, with golden slipping loop and pole and cautious creep, we wired those lazy, unsuspecting "suckers" on the grav gling with the rod and reel in later years has ever brought back the keen tingle of that primitive sport? The great green bull-frogs, too, in the lily pond. How they disclosed their cavernous resources as they jumped and splashed and sprawled after the tantalizing bit of red flannel on that dangling hook! We recall that rickety bridge among the willows, and the mossy nest of mud so firmly fixed upon the beam beneath. How could we be so deaf to the pleading of those little phoebe - birds that fluttered so beseechingly about us? Then there was that deep hole in the sand-bank near the brook, where the burrowing kingfisher hid away his nest. How we watched in the twilight to see him enter, and, with big round stone in readiness, "plugged" him in his den! What fun it was to dig him out, and ventilate his musty nest of fish bones! The starling in the thicket of the swamp circled through the air with angry "Quit! quit!" as we picked our way through the bristling bogs so close upon her nest. We'll not forget that false step that sent us sprawling in the green slimy mud, at the first electrifying glimpse of those four spotted eggs. The highholer, too, whose golden gleam of wing upon the bare dead tree betrayed his nesting-place in the hollow limb-was ever such a stimulus offered to the eagerness of youth? Who would give a second thought to his tender shins at the prospect of such a prize as a nest of high-holers' |