A NEW ENGLAND MAY-DAY 3 



catbird is singing in the arbour. It 

 is a much-trodden path in a long- 

 discovered country, but each one dis- 

 covers anew when he first sees it for 

 himself. The golden touch, the guinea- 

 stamp of Nature, is the dandelion in 

 the grass border; flattened close to the 

 sward, the wind passes over it, but 

 bends and twists the masses of paler 

 daffodils. The honeysuckles show 

 pinched yellow leaves; the shrubs are 

 bare, only the Forsythia is budded. 



With what green intensity the pines 

 are thrown into relief by the surround- 

 ing barrenness ! In the top of one, a 

 pair of crows are building, stealing 

 forward and back with the distrust 

 that is born of their small natures. 

 Below, in a sheltered nook, patches of 

 hardy violets are blooming : the little 

 white violets that our grandmothers 

 cherished, the odorous dark purple of 



