124 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



the morning. Along the wall between Beaver 

 Brook and the Oaks white buds were pointing 

 heavenward by hundreds. In a spot where the 

 sunlight fell the flowers were opening, and as 

 the warmth of the rays grew stronger, half 

 the glorious company opened their bright eyes 

 to the lovely spring morning. There are few 

 flowers with more purity in their faces than 

 bloodroot. They are made to admire and love 

 growing, not picked. If torn from their roots 

 their dark blood stains the picker's hand, and 

 soils the fair petals of the flowers themselves ; 

 even if tenderly borne to a vase they quickly 

 drop their petals, as though mourning their 

 home under the shadow of the barberry bushes. 

 Seated among these delicate children of the 

 soil, my back against an elm trunk and my 

 figure obscured by the drooping branches of a 

 bush, I watched the birds among the oaks, and 

 near the small pond at the foot of the kame on 

 which some of the oaks grow. The voices of 

 robins, song and chipping sparrows, cow birds, 

 redwings, flickers, and bluebirds filled the air. 

 At first it seemed as though from this chorus 

 single notes could not be detached, but soon the 

 rattle of a kingfisher sounded from on high. 

 Looking up I saw three of these birds flying 

 over towards Waltham and the Charles. They 

 were at a great height for them, and I could not 



