130 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



of their fronds which no other fern can equal. 



While these things happen I think I can see 

 the dryads quiver with delight and their jewels 

 dance and flash, living creatures rather than 

 gems. Surely if anyone may wear living jewels 

 it should be dryads. They have a trick of facing 

 you, these jewels, and looking like golden butter- 

 flies just spreading petal wings for a flight. At 

 such times I am minded not to move suddenly 

 lest they go off over the treetops like a flock of 

 goldfinches. If they should I should not be sur- 

 prised. With a change of light or position they 

 change appearance again and become tiny gold 

 dragons, winged dragons with gaping mouths 

 and little keen brown eyes that size you up. 

 Again each is but an ear-pendant, beaten of thin 

 gold hanging beneath the shell-green ear of the 

 dryad. 



All these are early morning fancies, born, I 

 dare say, of the fine flavor of the place, drunk in 

 dew. At noon, when the sun shines direct into 

 the marshy glade, the dryads have gone back into 

 their trees for a noonday nap and the jewel- 

 weeds are but weeds after all, though beautiful 

 ones. Bees come sailing along and plunge at the 

 open cornucopia of the lower petal, which was 



