BOG BOGLES 



loneliness. Here I see my first bumblebee 

 of the season, seemingly less dunder- 

 headed out here among the wild blooms 

 than he will be later in the white clover 

 of the lawn. 



Perhaps the prim and definite arrange- 

 ment of the cassandra blossoms, hung so 

 close in long strings that he has a straight 

 road to follow, helps keep his wits about 

 him. Here are honeybees a-plenty, adding 

 the clarinet to his bassoon, and many a 

 wild bee, too, bringing the scintillation of 

 iridescent thorax or wing, and his own 

 peculiar pitch to the symphony. I dare 

 say the hymenopterists know each bee by 

 ear as well as by sight. 



In this fairy land of bog tangle the 

 hylas, that I had thought all through with 

 their songs for the year, piped in chorus 

 as each cloud slipped over the sun, and 

 the leopard frogs yawned throatily, dream- 

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