82 mature StuMes in Berkshire. 



From my earliest days I have had an intense affection 

 for this flower. 1 have been passionately fond of its 

 delicate blossoms. 1 have craved its faint but satisfy- 

 ing perfume. I have revelled in its dainty colouring. 

 I have loved its modest, shrinking habit, its vain 

 attempts to nestle under the dead leaves, and hide 

 itself in the shelter of its own foliage. 



Perhaps my affection is inherited and rightfully 

 belongs in the traits of a descendant of the Pilgrims ; 

 there may be an ancestral pulse in the thrill which 

 comes at the sight of it in spring. Perhaps it has 

 gathered to itself the associations of many a boy- 

 hood hunt in the woods and on the rocky hills of the 

 dear Bay State. But whatever the source of the 

 sentiment, it renews itself every spring with some- 

 thing of the persistence of a religious devotion. I am 

 almost sorry that I compared the arbutus, a moment 

 ago, to a fish, even though it were a beautiful fish. 

 There is something carnal about a fish ; and there is 

 nothing, absolutely nothing, that is not dainty, subtle, 

 ethereal, in the make-up of this flower. 



How welcome, then, this fresh prowl among the 

 dead leaves, this search for the glistening green ovals 

 of the arbutus' leaves, the faint whiffs of perfume as 

 we unearthed the little blossoms. The date was a 

 trifle late to ensure our finding the flowers at their 

 best. We had reckoned a little too confidently on the 

 high ground and the woods as likely to retard their 

 blossoming. But there were enough of them, and 

 we worked our way up the slopes toward the south- 



