114 NATURE AND THE POETS. 



true poet if there ever was one, and the slips I point 

 out are only like an obscure feather or two in the 

 dove carelessly preened. The burnished plumage and 

 the bright hues hide them unless we look sharply. 



Whittier gets closer to the bone of the New Eng- 

 land nature. He comes from the farm, and his mem- 

 ory is stored with boyhood's wild and curious lore* 

 with 



"Knowledge never learned of schools, 



Of the wild bee's morning chase, 



Of the wild flower's time and place, 



Flight of fowl and habitude 



Of the tenants of the wood; 



How the tortoise bears his shell, 



How the woodchuck digs his cell 



And the ground-mole sinks his well; 



How the robin feeds her young; 



How the oriole's nest is hung; 



Where the whitest lilies blow, 



Where the freshest berries grow, 



Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 



Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; 



Of the black wasp's cunning way, 



Mason of his walls of clay, 



And the architectural plans 



Of gray hornet artisans ! " 



The poet is not as exact as usual when he applies 

 the epithet " painted " to the autumn beeches, as the 

 foliage of the beech is the least painty of all our 

 trees ; nor when he speaks of 



"Wind flower and violet, amber and white," 



fts neither of the flowers named is amber colored 

 From " A Dream of Summer " the reader might in 



