THE PRIMULA 49 



moment of perfect loveliness. As we go forward, 

 and up and over a huge tree trunk, we lose the 

 tiarella and see only the ferns delicately traced 

 against the wet moss or clinging to a bit of soil 

 on the very edge of an overhanging rocky bank. 

 Down now to the brookside we go, leaving wet 

 footprints on the flat stones from which the water 

 has receded toward the center since the passing of 

 the spring rains. 



Single file we go forward, now over and now 

 under the trunks of fallen trees. Suddenly, splash! 

 scramble! swish! and the Doctor barely escapes a 

 wetting by seizing a leafy branch. Laughing at his 

 mishap, and bending to escape the rebound of the 

 branch, I ignominiously repeat his manoeuvres, with 

 variations, and get a very wet foot. Sister Ellen fol- 

 lowing more sedately with her hands full of alder 

 blossoms, gets through without accident. 



A shout from the Doctor made me forget my dis- 

 comfort in watching an object in mid stream. Roll- 

 ing over and over, tossed lightly from one eddy 

 to another, a big wet barrel came bounding and 

 blundering along. What helpless appealing attitudes 

 it took; how mercilessly the stream bore it on to- 

 wards the rapids. We watched it go out of sight in 

 a deep pool and then come up on the other side with 

 one of its hoops broken. It now looked more as if 

 it were entering into the spirit of the thing and we 

 were tempted to move back and see it make the final 

 dash over the dam below the swinging bridge. But 

 remembering the Primula we pushed up stream. 

 For years I had heard that a tiny primrose dwelt on 



