A-MAYING 



SlSTER ELLEN had never seen the trailing arbu- 

 tus in its native woods. The rills and brooks near 

 the city had been so greatly "improved" by their 

 contact with civilization that scarcely a leaf re- 

 mained to suggest the sweetness of the May- 

 flower. It had retreated before the ever-advancing 

 army of flower pickers with baskets and grasping 

 hands. With it had gone the pinxter- flower, and 

 even the more rugged columbine had been driven 

 to establish itself on the steep sides of the gorges, 

 where no human foot had ever trod. 



We were wont to chuckle at the exasperation 

 of certain Philistines who fairly ground their teeth 

 when a fine clump of these blossoms gleamed from 

 some inaccessible ledge. We were grateful that 

 the fringed polygala and the saxifrage had escaped 

 the notice of wild- flower exterminators. But one 

 azalea remained in our near-by woods and a chosen 

 few knew its station. It served us for a calendar. 

 When its buds were pink at the points we knew 

 that the north slope of Tower Hill would be cov- 

 ered with arbutus and the south side with pink 

 azaleas. 



With baskets and small black pail we started, 

 Sister Ellen, the Doctor and I. "Why baskets?" 

 one might inquire, since hunting the wild flowers 



(21) 



