124 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



keep my distance. But he is a wise old man in 

 his love for gentle beauty and he makes a fine pic- 

 ture of gold and green, ruby fire and tender blue 

 as he folds all these youngsters in his embrace. 

 Those spines he must fold very close, even to 

 the withdrawing of them into his orange coloi'ed 

 cambium layers, for there is never an ouch from 

 the group. 



These are summer's flowers for remembrance, 

 the goldenrod and asters. She gives them to us 

 and goes, making all early autumn glow with her 

 memory thereby. But old man Barberry may 

 have these if he will. I like best to remember 

 her by others less common and less permanent, 

 flowers of shy dignity that begin to think of de- 

 parture when summer does, and vanish with the 

 flash of her trailing garments. Two of these, 

 the turtle-head and the jewel- weed, are little 

 known to careless passers, and elderly pasture 

 shrubs have no chance to lure them with Attle- 

 boro jewelry. They have their abode in cool 

 springs in seclusion behind the pine-clad hillside, 

 and would, I fancy, be ashamed to be seen wand- 

 ering wantonly about the open fields. I have to 

 make pilgrimage to their home in the middle of 

 the fountain head marsh to meet them, nor are 



