130 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



the bark has warped in long, loose flakes, 

 as if to provide nesting sites for a whole col- 

 ony of creepers. But the birds are not here ; 

 or, if they are, they do not mean that an in- 

 quisitive stranger shall know it. An olive- 

 sided flycatcher calls, rather far off, making 

 me suspicious for an instant of a red cross- 

 bill, and a white-throated sparrow whistles 

 out of the gulch below me ; but I listen in 

 vain for the quick tseep which would put an 

 eighty-seventh name into my vacation cata- 

 logue. 



Here is the round-leaved violet, one pale- 

 bright, shy blossom. How pleased I am to 

 see it ! Hobble-bush and wild red cherry 

 are still in bloom. White Mountain dog- 

 wood, we might almost call the hobble-bush ; 

 so well it fills the place, in flowering time, 

 of Cornus florida in the Alleghanies. In 

 the twilight of the woods, as in the darkness 

 of evening, no color shows so far as white ; 

 which, for aught I know, may be one of the 

 reasons why, relatively speaking, white flow- 

 ers are so much more common in the forest 

 than in the open country. In my eyes, 

 nevertheless, the leaves of the hobble-bush 



