86 HILLSIDE, ROCK, AND DALE 



bush, showing itself from a bunch of buds on a hang- 

 ing spray, always seems to be a token that summer 

 is here. I do not like to pick the first of the roses ; 

 let them speak to others as they do to me. It is a 

 great grievance to rob the countryside of all its wild 

 flowers ; pick one here, and another there, and no 

 one will see the gap. Some of the flowers in the 

 nearer suburbs of London are gone almost before the 

 buds are fully open. In the early spring I always 

 know where to find a patch of lovely violets ; being 

 known to no one else, it is a delight to see them 

 growing until the grasses rise up and hide them. 



The moving pageant is again seen by the stream. 

 Trees fringe the low and rough banks ; here and 

 there are bushes with one or two roses hanging low 

 down over the water. It is a delightful little stream ; 

 just here it forms a pool of clear, sparkling water; 

 a few yards farther up miniature waterfalls and tiny 

 cascades are in keeping with moss-covered stones. 

 As one wanders on, small torrents run through 

 narrower channels, widening again to another pool, 

 and yet more falls, where the water as it drops 

 makes summer music. A magpie darts from her 

 nest in a low tree ; finches drinking at a pool are 

 startled ; some sparrows fly up, but soon return to 

 their splashing baths. I like to see a sparrow bathe ; 

 he seems to so enjoy the water ; and then, when 

 thoroughly soaked, he sits on a low branch, flutters 



