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But if these little flowers are not beautiful enough, or 
sweet-smelling enough, to please the bees and butter- 
flies, it is hardly probable that the birds will pay them 
any attention. 
So let us go out into the woods with our eyes and 
our ears wide open, and see if we can discover some 
flower visitor that does not ask for fine clothes and 
sweet smells. 
Through the bushes comes the lisp of the song spar- 
row. From overhead falls the note of the bluebird. 
The bees are buzzing about the golden willow tassels. 
On the top of an old tree trunk a butterfly is drowsing 
in the sun’s rays. But already we know that neither 
bird, nor bee, nor butterfly will go out of its way to help 
our pale, scentless little tree blossoms. 
A squirrel darts from under cover, and runs along 
the stone wall. Among the dead leaves at our feet a 
little striped snake lies in a sluggish coil. But squirrel 
and snake would be alike useless as flower visitors. 
We are almost tempted to give up trying to guess the 
answer to the riddle. Somewhat discouraged, we stop 
to rest on an old log overgrown with delicate mosses. 
A soft, sighing sound creeps through the pines at 
the foot of yonder hill. Over the little hollow sweeps 
a gust of wind. A faint cloud, as of dust, fills the air. 
One of the children begins to sneeze. Where can the 
dust come from? The roads are still deep with mud. 
And, besides, ordinary dust does not make us sneeze 
as though it were pepper. 
Ah, my friend, you are getting warm, very warm 
indeed; for this dust is no dried earth from the high- 
