A WINTER WALK 203 



I have always had a failing for wet places. I was 

 probably restrained in my youth from wading and 

 paddling. If I can find a spring or brook, a pond, 

 or even a plain, homely mud-puddle to poke about 

 in, I am more than content. The life in the water 

 is the life I turn to for my solid satisfaction. I 

 must confess that I had no idea of finding any- 

 thing alive along the frozen edge of Fall Brook, 

 at a place where the stream widens into a pond 

 and receives the surplus water from a cold spring 

 and a tributary brook. But what do these round 

 holes in the snow mean? Surely "skunk cabbage" 

 is not having a "spring opening" in January? But 

 so it is. There are the strong brownish purple 

 hoods just lifting their peaks above the water. Up 

 further on the bank the snow was melted in little 

 cup-shaped hollows around each blossom. Did you 

 ever experience the odor of this vegetable? You 

 can't remember? Oh, yes, you could if you had 

 ever smelled it. Perhaps you can resist the temp- 

 tation to put your hand down and rub its smooth 

 sides. Probably you cannot. You will certainly 

 want to smell it again, just to see if it smells as 

 bad as it did last year. Yes, it is the same old 

 smell, perhaps a little worse than ever before. In 

 spite of its unsavory name and reputation, the plant 

 delights me. Its bravery cheers me, and its vigor 

 quickens my pulse. I can ignore the rest. 



As I strayed further down the bank of the 

 stream, I came upon some wild cherry trees, stand- 

 ing bare and dark against a background of blue 

 sky. Why did most of the leaves fall and only a 



