SHARP EYES 



trunk of a sugar -maple, while an eager brood have 

 sought the wood -pile, crowding each other in their 

 eager tipple from the sweet fermented exudation on 

 the end of the white-birch log. 



But they are not all to be found here. Even as we 

 watch the gathering swarm at the birch-log feast a new- 

 comer speeds swiftly past our ear with an especially 

 eager hum. There is no loitering at the wood-pile this 

 time. Over the barn -yard and garden, and across the 

 white field beyond, we can readily trace its flight until 

 lost in the twiggy mist of the swamp beyond. Another 

 and another follow in its trail, and if we choose to 

 % - wait and watch with patience we may soon 

 witness the returning procession, each winged 

 forager with his saddle-bags overflowing with 

 golden grist. What a vision of summer in 

 those rounded yellow thighs! Blossoms? 

 Blossoms? But where? 

 The ground is covered with 

 snow, and flaky ice incrusts 

 the borders of the pools, and 

 yet here is our veritable summer 

 bee laying up its store of pollen, 

 It is now some weeks before 

 the wood bouquet of anem- 

 ones and bloodroots may be 

 sought with confidence, but 

 the honey-bee knows where to 

 find a pioneer blossom that is fast 

 going to seed when these wood 

 blooms first show their faces. Even 

 to us who know the bee's secret, 

 how often does he give us the hint 



