A QUIET MORNING 211 



bling. Few voices can surpass his for sweet- 

 ness and expressiveness. The grouse drums 

 again (let every bird be happy in his own 

 way), a myrtle warbler trills (a talker to 

 himself), and a passing goldfinch drops a 

 melodious measure. All the chokecherry 

 bushes are now in white. The day may be 

 Whitsunday for all that my unchurchly 

 mind can say. Red cherries, which whit- 

 ened the world a few days ago, are fast fol- 

 lowing the shadbushes, which have been 

 out of flower for a week. Apple trees, too, 

 have passed the height of their splendor. 

 The vernal procession moves like a man in 

 haste. 



The sun grows warm. I will betake my- 

 self to the maple grove and sit in the 

 shadow ; but first I notice in the grass by 

 the wall an abundance of tiny veronica 

 flowers (speedwell) — white, streaked with 

 purple, as I perceive when I pluck one. 

 Not a line but runs true. Everything is 

 beautiful in its time ; the little speedweU no 

 less than the valley and the mountain. A 

 red squirrel, far out on a tilting elm spray, 

 is eating his fill of the green fruit. Mother 



