A FOREST ANTHEM. 



THE 30th of April was a hot day. I left 

 Boston at 12.30 p. M., in a car marked for the 

 White Mountains via Conway Junction. The 

 country was beautifully green, and some early 

 fruit trees were white with flowers. In the brook 

 meadows the marsh marigolds were gleaming 

 like gold coin, and now and then we passed a 

 pasture whitened by houstonia. As we rolled 

 over the Ipswich and Rowley marshes the dunes 

 showed their ragged ranges against the eastern 

 sky, and the sunlight brought out the beauty 

 of their coloring. I was struck by the indiffer- 

 ence to the cars of many of the wild creatures 

 we passed. A woodchuck trundled his fat body 

 slowly over a sandy field and scarcely looked at 

 the train. Crows often walked up and down a 

 stubble field within fifty feet of the track and 

 merely kept one eye on the rushing, dust-raising 

 cars. Near Kittery an eagle drew nearer and 

 nearer to the train as though interested by it. 

 On the other hand, sheep and dozens of awk- 

 ward spring lambs fled from us, and horses kicked 

 up their heels and galloped away in their pas- 



