GLENCOE 23 



On the ravine's southward slope the delicate 

 wood anemones, in twos and threes, have been 

 nodding and smiling across to the northward 

 slope, and we have been guessing that the sturdy 

 hepaticas were there; and now, all at once, we 

 come upon them, surrounded by their own last 

 season's leaves, that a few days ago would have 

 seemed as lifeless as the tawny carpet about 

 them. To the very end of the ravine now we 

 shall rejoice in hepaticas. 



We shout for joy as we look upward. Un- 

 countable numbers of hepaticas are there, pink 

 and white and lavender, millions of starry flowers 

 and downy silvery stems and buds. Here and 

 there glow patches of crimson and bronze where 

 the sun strikes through the leaves, revived by the 

 stirring sap to give up what nourishment is in 

 them that the brave blossoms may unfold. 



Just beyond the bridge, on which the big boy 

 stands and laughs down at us from among the 

 tree tops, a grassy clearing rises high from the 

 stream bank where violet leaves already form 

 thick mats over the moist earth and May-apples 

 are pushing up their funny tipless green umbrellas. 

 Later in the season we picnic on the stone pile 

 on the beach, but in April this sunny sheltered 

 spot by the bridge is better. We idle long in the 



