140 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



that long, steep, boulder-covered slope. I 

 should love to be there now. I wonder what 

 flowers are already in bloom. It must be 

 too early for the diapensia and the Green- 

 land sandwort, I imagine. Yet I am not 

 sure. Mountain flowers are quick to an- 

 swer when the sun speaks to them. Thou- 

 sands of years they have been learning to 

 make the most of a brief season. Plants of 

 the same species bloom earlier here than in 

 level Massachusetts. After all, alpine plants, 

 hurried and harried as they are, true chil- 

 dren of poverty, have perhaps the best of it. 

 " Blessed are ye poor " may have been spoken 

 to them also. Hardy mountaineers, blossom- 

 ing in the very face of heaven, with no 

 earthly admirers except the butterflies. I 

 remember the splendors of the Lapland aza- 

 lea in middle June, with rocks and snow for 

 neighbors. So it will be this year, for Wis- 

 dom never faileth. I look and look, till 

 almost I am there on the heights, my feet 

 standing on a carpet of blooming willows 

 and birches, and the world, like another car- 

 pet, outspread below. 



But there is much else to delight me. 



