96 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



almost imperceptibly one into the other. With 

 new leaves half-grown, with blossoms bursting, it 

 is hard to tell without close inspection which is 

 which, so tender and rich are the colors which 

 unfold from all buds. The yellow of the dande- 

 lion, the blue of wood violets, and the purple of 

 the wild cranesbill are not more delicate, nor are 

 they so rich as the red of the young leaves of the 

 white oaks, now as large as a mouse's ear, which 

 is the Indian sign for the time to plant corn. 

 The blossoms of the berry bushes are no more 

 flower-like than the young leaves among which 

 they grow. The green-yellow of barberry 

 blooms is not more fervent than the yellow-green 

 of the tender foliage, and the two colors blend 

 into one burning bush of cool flame. I do not 

 wonder the summer yellow-bird loves to build his 

 nest in the barberry bush. Its colors at this 

 season are his own. 



Other surprises meet men in the pasture this 

 spring. There is a particularly beautiful corner 

 which many city people have come to share with 

 me. On holidays and Sundays they troop to 

 their bungalow on the pond shore by the hundred. 

 Yet they must love barberry bushes and sweet- 

 fern, red cedar and white pine, as I do, for they 



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