SPUING. 



43 



never hung upon a thorn. Not perfect yet, it seems, however, for that 

 little feminine eye has seen the need of one more touch. Away she flies, 

 and in a minute more a downy feather, tipped with iridescent green, is 

 adjusted in the cobwebs. 



/ 



This dainty little work of art is only one 

 of the thousands that everywhere are building in 

 the blooming trees and thickets. These are the 

 supreme moments of the spring, consecrated to 

 the loves of bird and blossom. Every little winged 

 form that scarcely bends the twig has its all-con- 

 suming passion, and every tree its wedding of the 



flower. Out in the orchard the apple-trees are laden in veritable domes 

 of pink-white bloom, as if by the rare spectacle of a rosy fall of snow, and 

 from among the dewy petals the army of bees give forth their low, con- 



IN THE APPLE ORCHARD. 



