THE PRIMULA 51 



Finally we came to a spot directly under the 

 bridge and painfully climbed to the top of the 

 mound. It was as if a stage had been erected from 

 which to view the assembled Primulas. We clasped 

 hands and gazed on the sight before us. It was a 

 picture for an artist. A background of shelving 

 rocks rose in huge rugged outlines before us. Far 

 above hung a tapestry of deep green moss, sparkling 

 with jewels of spring water. Clinging everywhere, 

 on the bare flat edges of the stone wall were literally 

 thousands of tiny plants each bearing its star-like 

 flowers of rosy or paler pink. We looked and 

 looked, trying to make the impression deep and 

 lasting. It was an enchanting sight. 



A few fine, dainty ferns and sedges were the 

 only plants which bore the Primrose company in its 

 seclusion, save where a single columbine, more dar- 

 ing than its fellows, burned on some jutting ledge. 



"Good thing?" inquired the Doctor, as we turned 

 our steps homeward. 



"Good thing," we replied. 



Words are poor things. We found little else to 

 say. There are some feelings too deep for expres- 

 sion, some sights too sacred for description. 



" Let us come to this place every year," said 

 one of us, and the others gave silent consent. 



In this world there are two classes of things to be 

 done,— the important and the unimportant. In 

 Primrose time we descend into Fall Brook gorge, 

 and make our way to the beloved spot. Our pil- 

 grimage is important; other things can wait. 



