IN SILENT WOODS 



and a wandering bit of marsh which few have 

 crossed, save sportsmen and the random seeker for 

 strayed cattle. Bog Moss floors half the pathway 

 over the low ground mingled with 

 Shining Club Mosses, Sweet Flag, 

 and Bur Reeds. Then comes a 

 space of damp, sand -covered stones, 

 / once a brook bed, and now con- 

 cealed by Creeping Scale Moss or 

 Selaginella; and on the moist, shady 

 bank above, the long, graceful white 

 flower -spikes of Black Cohosh make 

 a feathery thicket, through which 

 we push to gain the knoll, trampling 

 Starry Campion on every side. 



Once within this boundary, the 

 deeply compound leaves and long 

 flower -panicles of Spikenard make 

 us pause a moment in admiration. 

 This plant sometimes vigorously 

 holds its blossoms up to the very 

 chin, as if to bid us examine their 

 minute beauty, though the wine- 

 colored fruit that follows classes it 

 with those frequent wood things bet- 

 ter known by berry than by flower. 



