She Lay of te Band 
still, and I can see the bees. Here is where they 
are getting their gold. But not all of it. Some of it 
to-day is coming from the marsh marigolds. 
Early in April, before the shad-bush had opened, 
or a bee had ventured to the meadows, I picked the 
first hardy blossom of the marigolds out of icy water, 
out of mud that had barely thawed. A token this, 
a promise ; but not the sure sign of spring. The bees 
did not see it; they were waiting, like me, for the 
shad-bush. So were the marigolds, for to-day the low, 
wet edge of the meadow ditch is all aglow with the 
shining of their gold, which the bees are pocketing by 
the thighful. Among the “flowers,” the marigolds 
are the first here to offer a harvest for the hives. 
The procession is under way. The assembling be- 
gan weeks ago, with the March hepatica, the stray 
April arbutus, windflower, spice-bush, and bloodroot. 
There were saxifrage and everlasting out, too; but 
they all came singly and timidly. There was no move- 
ment of the flowers until the shad-bush opened. Now 
the marigolds appear in companies, the windflowers 
drift together, and the hepaticas, leading the line, 
make a show. The procession of the flowers has 
started ; spring is here. 
106 
