140 LITERARY PILGRIMAGES 



midday, blackbirds chorused, and song sparrows 

 sent forth their tinkling songs from the shrubby 

 growths. Plymouth woods, here at least, are a 

 monotony of oaks. Yet here and there in the low 

 places a maple has become a burning bush of ruby 

 flame, and along the bog edges the willows are in 

 the full glory of their yellow plumes. The richest 

 massed coloring one can see in the region to-day, 

 though, is that of the cranberry bogs. Looking 

 away from the sun the thick-set vines are a level 

 floor of rich maroon, not a level color but a back- 

 ground showing the brush marks of a master 

 painter's hand. Toward the sun this color lightens 

 and silvers to tiny jewel points where the light 

 glances from glossy leaf tips. The later spring 

 growth will fleck the bogs with green, but the 

 maroon background will still be there. 



The arbutus does not trail in all spots beneath 

 the oaks, even in this secluded wilderness. Some- 

 times one thinks he sees broad stretches green 

 with its rounded leaves only to find last year's 

 checkerberries grinning coral red at him, instead 

 of the soft pink tints and spicy odor of the Epigaea 

 blooms. Sometimes the pyrola simulates it and 



