TURTLE-HEAD AND JEWEL-WEED 123 



ment when the sweepers, the autumn winds, come 

 and brusquely brush them out. Old man Bar- 

 berry is very happy at this time too. Since he 

 hung out his queer smelling pale gold pendants 

 in late May he has shown no touch of color, but 

 has wrapped himself stoically in sober green and 

 waited, as old men know how to do. Now his day 

 has come again and he is very brave in rubies 

 that fringe his dull attire and make him flash 

 fire in the sun from head to foot. Slender gold- 

 enrod girls and blue-eyed aster children, troop- 

 ing along the fields and over the hills, holding up 

 the train of summer as she walks so sedately, 

 think him adorable. If summer stops but for a 

 moment I see them slipping slyly into his arms, 

 laying golden heads on his drab waistcoat and 

 gazing with wonder-blue eyes at his coruscating 

 gems. I think well of old man Barberry, too; 

 better I fancy than he does of me. I admire his 

 stocky growth which has a sturdy grace of its 

 own, and I love him for the birds that he shelters, 

 the yellow warblers that love to build their cot- 

 tony nests in his arms. But he was born in the 

 pasture long before I was and he usually resents 

 my advances. His trident spines have a sarcas- 

 tic touch that tingles, and with them he bids me 



