130 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



— the bark has warped in long, loose flakes, 

 as if to provide nesting sites for a whole col- 

 ony of creepers. But the birds are not here ; 

 or, if they are, they do not mean that an in- 

 quisitive stranger shall know it. An olive- 

 sided flycatcher calls, rather far off, making 

 me suspicious for an instant of a red cross- 

 bill, and a white-throated sparrow whistles 

 out of the gulch below me ; but I listen in 

 vain for the quick tseep which would put an 

 eighty-seventh name into my vacation cata- 

 logue. 



Here is the round-leaved violet, one pale- 

 bright, shy blossom. How pleased I am to 

 see it ! Hobble-bush and wild red cherry 

 are still in bloom. White Mountain dog- 

 wood, we might almost call the hobble-bush ; 

 so well it fills the place, in flowering time, 

 of Cornus florida m the Alleghanies. In 

 the twilight of the woods, as in the darkness 

 of evening, no color shows so far as white ; 

 which, for aught I know, may be one of the 

 reasons why, relatively speaking, white flow- 

 ers are so much more common in the forest 

 than in the open country. In my eyes, 

 nevertheless, the leaves of the hobble-bush 



