14 THE BROOK BOOK 



gray pussies peered out at us from under their tight 

 brown hoods. 



In March it was safe to venture again. The 

 stream was full. It talked in low gutturals as it 

 lapped over the clumps of long dry grass which had 

 crowded its channel. It bore a load of coarse sand 

 which it was spreading over the island farther down. 

 The willow catkins had pushed their scales off and 

 stood revealed in their soft gray beauty. I stopped 

 long enough to rub my cheek against them and 

 could almost fancy I heard a "purr." A few were 

 already shaking out their yellow anthers. The rim 

 of ice left at the water's edge by the sharp night 

 was pierced by pointed spathes of skunk-cabbage. 



April brought out the dazzling yellow of the 

 marsh marigold, whose presence we had half sus- 

 pected from the clumps of bright green foliage 

 clinging to the earth in the very center of the 

 current. 



A solitary shadbush, retreating to the border of 

 the stream to escape the devouring ax of the clearing, 

 revealed itself half apologetically. This tree is seen 

 at its best in the woods along Clear Creek. Follow- 

 ing the broad path along the right hand side one 

 comes to an opening in the woods. Below, the 

 stream widens into a broad tranquil sheet. Beyond 

 there is a mass of closely grown pines and low 

 shrubs. The bank rises, the eye follows up to- 

 ward the sunlight — all unexpectedly there comes 

 from among the treetops a shimmer of silver, a 



