W ood Notes 
tle spice-bush, with the faint fragrance of a universal 
kindness, that does in a humble way in moist woods 
what the forsythia is doing more brilliantly in more aris- 
tocratic surroundings on our lawns. ‘The spice-bush isa 
pleasant thing, in foliage, flower and fruit, and they 
have not disdained to make considerable use of it in the 
Park, although I have a suspicion that, like some other 
wild things, it is not pleasantly disposed toward artifi- 
cial treatment. Awake with the first bright color of the 
season (except perhaps that of the marsh-marigolds, often 
called cowslips) its leafless branches suddenly bursting 
into clusters of minute yellow blossoms just as the pine 
creeper and yellow redpoll arrive, this little shrub, plant- 
ing itself everywhere, is the most conspicuous object in 
the bleak woods of early April. 
Like the spongy soil, our memories are more impres- 
sionable for the earliest beauties of the year, so that the 
simpler things of April stir more enthusiasm than the 
much finer displays of May and June. Would the world 
really hold the violet and anemone in such affectionate 
regard, if they did not time their coming so as to mo- 
nopolize our hearts, but delayed until they must be con- 
tent with our subdivided affections? I hope that the 
world would bend as eagerly over a bed of violets or a 
flowering trillium in the ‘‘height of the season’’ as in 
the cold air and soggy soil of early spring; but I sus- 
pect that we annually become a trifle d/asé¢, that the fine 
edge of our sentiments is a little worn off in summer, 
and it is a godsend that we have a winter in which to 
starve our eyes and recuperate our feelings. 
But to return—the spice-bush does not feel that it 
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