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still, and I can see the bees. Here is where they 

 are getting their gold. But not all of it. Some of it 

 to-day is coming from the marsh marigolds. 



Early in April, before the shad-bush had opened, 

 or a bee had ventured to the meadows, I picked the 

 first hardy blossom of the marigolds out of icy water, 

 out of mud that had barely thawed. A token this, 

 a promise ; but not the sure sign of spring. The bees 

 did not see it ; they were waiting, like me, for the 

 shad-bush. So were the marigolds, for to-day the low, 

 wet edge of the meadow ditch is all aglow with the 

 shining of their gold, which the bees are pocketing by 

 the thighful. Among the "flowers," the marigolds 

 are the first here to offer a harvest for the hives. 



The procession is under way. The assembling be- 

 gan weeks ago, with the March hepatica, the stray 

 April arbutus, windflower, spice-bush, and bloodroot. 

 There were saxifrage and everlasting out, too ; but 

 they all came singly and timidly. There was no move- 

 ment of the flowers until the shad-bush opened. Now 

 the marigolds appear in companies, the windflowers 

 drift together, and the hepaticas, leading the line, 

 make a show. The procession of the flowers has 

 started ; spring is here. 



io6 



