64 A Hunt for the Pyxie 



silent battle-field where the struggle for ex- 

 istence never ceases, and yet, as we see it, 

 peaceful as the fleecy clouds that fleck an 

 April sky. 



Though the wind that swept the wide 

 reach of waters close at hand still smacked 

 of wintry weather, there was a welcome 

 warmth on shore. The oaks even hinted of 

 the coming leaf. Their buds were so far 

 swollen that the sharp outlines of bare twigs 

 against the sky were rounded off. The ruddy 

 stems of the blueberry bushes gave to the 

 river-bank a fire-like glow, and yet more 

 telling was the wealth of bright golden glow 

 where the tall Indian grass waved in all its 

 glory. The repellent desolation of mid- 

 winter, so common to our cold-soil upland 

 fields, was wholly wanting here ; for, while 

 nothing strongly suggested life as we think 

 of it, even in early spring, yet nothing re- 

 called death, the familiar feature of a mid- 

 winter landscape. 



The scattered cedars were not gloomy to- 

 day. Their green-black foliage stood out in 

 bold relief, a fitting background to the pifture 

 of Spring's promises. That the sea was not 

 far off is evident, for even here, a dozen miles 



