AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS 63 



can one let the spring go by without gathering it 

 himself when it hides in the moss! There are arbu- 

 tus days in one's calendar, days when the trail- 

 ing flower fairly calls him to the woods. With me, 

 they come the latter part of April. The grass is 

 greening here and there on the moist slopes and by 

 the spring runs; the first furrow has been struck 

 by the farmer; the liver-leaf is in the height of its 

 beauty, and the bright constellations of the blood- 

 root shine out here and there; one has had his first 

 taste and his second taste of the spring and of the 

 woods, and his tongue is sharpened rather than 

 cloyed. Now he will take the most delicious and 

 satisfying draught of all, the very essence and soul 

 of the early season, of the tender brooding days, 

 with all their prophecies and awakenings, in the 

 handful of trailing arbutus which he gathers in his 

 walk. At the mere thought of it, one sees the sun- 

 light flooding the woods, smells the warm earthy 

 odors which the heat liberates from beneath the dry 

 leaves, hears the mellow bass of the first bumble- 

 bee, 



" Rover of the underwoods," 



or the finer chord of the adventurous honey-bee 

 seeking store for his empty comb. The arriving 

 swallows twitter above the woods; the first che- 

 wink rustles the dry leaves; the north ward -bound 

 thrushes, the hermit and the gray -cheeked, flit here 



