a flDa^Dap on monument 81 



I hear the cry of the hawk, and see his ominous 

 shadow darkening the leaves. The note of a thrush 

 thrills the still air ; and as I stretch my arm toward a 

 splendid blossom, I start back at the tremendous 

 drum of a partridge on which I have nearly placed 

 my hand, and which goes thundering away into the 

 deeper thicket. 



For the arbutus hunt, a special day was set apart, 

 and a special company bidden, choice spirits who 

 love the woods and are victims of what Kipling calls 

 "The old spring-fret." We fixed on May-day, and 

 planned to strike the trail of the mayflower on Monu- 

 ment Mountain. The farmer's big " three-seater " 

 bore us across country and up the fine road from 

 Barrington toward Stockbridge. It was one of those 

 hot, unseasonable days which anticipate in May the 

 coming summer, and the horses panted and sweat 

 under the baking sun. 



The green things of the soil,— turf, leaf, and fern, 

 — seemed to take a great leap forward as the hot 

 wave rolled over them, and we could almost see 

 things grow all around us. The air was full of the 

 aroma of dank earth, of delicate blossoms, of soaking 

 moss, of saturated mould. When we turned aside 

 from the road and took the wood-path up the mount- 

 ain, the sun, pouring down through the forest trees 

 as yet showing hardly more than buds, seemed to 

 create a perfect ferment of growing and unfolding 

 germs in every rod of soil. 



But now began the joyous hunt for the arbutus. 



