THE SEASON OF FLOWERS 189 



top of the "hill," the long ridge that extends 

 from Beverly Hills to Blue Island, and which 

 yields the same harvest at many points. 



A sunny Sunday morning in the daisy-patch 

 is not to be forgotten. You must take shears or 

 a strong knife, for the stems are tough, and you 

 want so many; and you will need strings to tie 

 the daisies in tight bunches, so that you may carry 

 the more. And for a while you stoop to cut them, 

 and then you just sit down where they are thickest 

 and pick around you. It is beautiful to see the big 

 little girl sitting so, almost buried in the tall 

 daisies, the white ribbon on her top-knot 

 making her look like a larger blossom as she 

 bends over her lapful to tie them up. The west 

 wind sways the flowers and the ribbon. The 

 great feather-bed clouds sail past, miles above 

 you in the clear blue sky. Only the distant 

 sounds^ from the early golfers break the Sabbath 

 stillness. 



As you go back you will find a few wild straw- 

 berries under the edge of the sidewalk, just 

 enough to remind you what nectar is. 



You have had such a season of refreshment 

 that you find yourself pitying the church-goers 

 whom you fall in with on your way home. 



When you have eaten the dinner that has been 



