A QUIET AFTERNOON 37 



meadow-beauty ; an odd creature, with a tan- 

 gle of long stamens; bright-colored, showy 

 in its intention, so to speak, but rather curi- 

 ous than beautiful, in spite of its name; es- 

 pecially because the petals have not the grace 

 to fall when they are done, but hang, with- 

 ered and discolored, to spoil the grace of 

 later comers. The prettiest thing about it 

 all, after the freshly opened first flower, is 

 the urn-shaped capsule. That, to me, is of 

 really classic elegance. 



Now I have crossed the road and am 

 seated on a chestnut stump, with my back 

 against a tree, on the edge of a broad, roll- 

 ing, closely cropped cattle-pasture, a piece 

 of genuine New England. Scattered loosely 

 over it are young, straight, slender-waisted, 

 shoulder-high cedars, and on my right hand 

 is a big patch of hardhack, growing in tufts 

 of a dozen stalks each, every one tipped with 

 an arrow-head of pink blossoms. The whole 

 pasture is full of sunshine. Down at the 

 lower end is a long, narrow, irregular-shaped 

 pond. I cannot see it because of a natural 

 hedge against the fence-row on my left ; but 

 somehow the landscape takes an added beauty 



