IIO IN SILENT WOODS 



less fitful and feverish mood than those who say 

 goodnight at the gate. 



All the ground odor does not come from the 

 earth itself. As you gaze dreamily at the infinite 

 shadings of the moss, small round leaves separate 

 themselves from it, following a threading vine hither 

 and thither until the mossy cushion merges into 

 a leafy bank dotted here and there by waxy red 

 berries. In passing the hand over the leaves, new 

 shoots will turn back and show the velvety -tubed 

 throat and the tiny, cross -shaped flowers of the 

 Partridge Vine, another wood plant that holds its 

 fruitage through the winter. Small as the flower 

 is, its fragrance is exquisite, being a refinement 

 of the same quality of perfume which we find 

 in Clethra, Lizard's Tail, Buttonbush and Swamp 

 Azalea. To pull a handful from the mass is but 

 to find a straggling vine that almost depends for 

 identity upon its unity with its haunt, but seen 

 where it covers the ground with green -red -white, 

 it must be counted with the decorative flowers of 

 the mimic landscapes of deep woods. 



A bluish color, novel at all times in the woods, 

 draws the eye to a partly open space where, clus- 

 tered in the hollows between tree roots, there re- 



