SPRING. 39 



that crumbling log, is named more to my mind. There he stands be- 

 neath his striped canopy, and preaches to me a sermon on the well- 

 remembered rashness of my youth in trifling with that subterranean bulb 

 from which he grows. But I ignored his warning in those early clays. 

 I only knew that a real nice boy across the way seemed very fond of 

 those little Indian turnips, called them "sugar-roots," and said that they 

 were full of honey. And as he bit off his eager mouthful, and refused 

 to let me taste, I sought one for myself, and, generous boy that he was, he 

 showed me where to find the buried treasure. It was like a small turnip, 

 an innocent-looking affair (and so was the nice boy's modelled piece of 

 apple, by-the-way). But oh ! the sudden revelation of the red-hot reservoir 

 of chain-lightning that crammed that innocent bulb ! Even as I think of 

 it, how I long once more to interview that real nice boy who opened up 

 the mysteries of the "sugar-root" to my tempted curiosity. Let boys 

 beware of this wild, red-hot coal ; and should they be impelled by a desire 

 to test the unknown flavor, let them solace themselves \with a less danger- 

 ous mixture of four papers of cambric needles and a spoonful of pounded 

 glass. This will give a faint suggestion of the racy pungency of the 

 Indian turnip. Were some kind friend at the present clay to seek to 

 kill me off with poisoned food, I should forthwith have him arrested on 

 a charge of attempted murder, and incarcerated in the county jail. But 

 what would be wilful homicide in the man is only a guileless proof of 

 friendship in the boy, and his affections and their symptoms present a 

 living paradox ; and those boisterous days, with all their fond caresses in 

 the way of fights and bruises and black eyes, and even Indian turnips, 

 we all agrree were full of fun the like of which we never shall see again. 



How well we remember those tramps along the meadow brook : the 

 dark, still holes beneath the overhanging rocks, where, with golden slip- 

 ping loop and pole and cautious creep, we wired those lazy, unsuspecting 

 "suckers" on the gravelly bed below! Ah! what scientific angling with 

 the rod and reel in later years has ever brought back the keen tingle of 

 that primitive sport? The great green bull -frogs, too, in the lily-pond, 

 disclosing their cavernous resources as they jumped and splashed and 

 sprawled after the tantalizing bit of red flannel on that dangling hook ! 

 We recall that rickety bridge among the willows, and the mossy nest of 

 mud so firmly fixed upon the beam beneath. How could we be so deaf 

 to the pleading of those little phcebe-birds that fluttered so beseechingly 

 about us? Then there was that deep hole in the sancl-bank near the 



