WHERE THE BEE SUCKS 



S the good St. Valentine a wiz- 

 ard ? What magic is this he 

 hath wrought out of leafless 

 boughs ? Madame Plum-tree, 

 dwarf and thorny, wears pow- 

 dering of pearl from top to toe. The La- 

 dies Peach blush pinker than the dawn to the 

 tiniest tip of all their flexile twigs, Dowa- 

 ger-Duchess Pear hath veiled her in white 

 lace, and pert Mademoiselle Cherry is all 

 atangle with green-white buds. 



They are not weather-wise these poor 

 folk for all their rank and worth. They 

 little dream that, near two weeks back, Mas- 

 ter Ground-hog crept out for a look at 

 things chiefly his own shadow, could he 

 see it ? thus to forecast if spring were late 

 or early. He did see a shadow sharp, 

 black, well-defined. The sun shone treach- 

 erous-bright that day. With a snort of con- 

 tempt for such fair pretence, Master Ground- 

 hog crept back to his hole for six weeks 



