THE COMING OF SPRING 31 



the shower was upon us. The chaise top and 

 boot have saved me many a wetting. In fact, a 

 wise horse and that democratic vehicle that usually 

 suffers the indignity of the name of "buggy," 

 corrupted from the East Indian word for gig, are 

 indispensable companions for a woman who visits 

 the flowers in their haunts, or goes hunting with 

 a camera. 



The wonder of the change since early morning! 

 A keen ear might have heard the leaves unfurl and 

 the wrappings drop from the various catkins, while 

 the unalloyed aroma of the earth arose with the 

 vapor of the steaming pastures. 



At home, with Nell safely stabled and fed, I 

 stood on the porch watching the water course down 

 the triple trunk of a slender Black Birch. Sud- 

 denly the rain ceased and the sun rent the clouds 

 in hot haste. As if at this signal the Magician 

 raised his staff, the adhesive winter wrappings 

 melted, and the Birch tree was enveloped in a 

 golden glory of yellow -stamened tassels! 



The season offered many golden days, and wood 

 and field overflowed with ferns and flowers, but the 

 first is the longest remembered; the day that began 

 and ended in sunlight, with the wetting of an 

 April shower between, the day when Nell and I, 



