124 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



that I found no green thing save where, nestling at the 

 wrinkled feet of gnarly oaks, the tufted mats of emerald 

 moss, keeping a brilliant summer to themselves, shone 

 fitfully through the whirling clouds of wind -tossed 

 leaves ? The shores of the little brook were lifeless as 

 I approached them. The long, gaunt limbs of the horn- 

 beams, stretching aimlessly into chilly space, were the 

 only objects that the shuddering waters reflected, and 

 typified a comfortless March day. Comfortless ? How 

 rashly do we use the Queen's English, if there be not 

 perfection in our surroundings. Comfortless, indeed ! 

 In spite of the March wind, a dainty frog, dinging to 

 trembling blades of grass, piped merrily; even un- 

 daunted when the gusts dashed icy spray in his face. 

 Surely, fur-wrapped and stoutly booted, I need not com- 

 plain. I pressed forward to the willows, and was greeted 

 by the birds. Scattered over every bush, hovering over 

 last year's nests, and bending topmost twigs of every 

 tree, were the crimson-shouldered starlings whose united 

 voices flooded the meadows with melody. 



As I listened, I gathered catkins from the clustered 

 alders, but found no green thing. They seemed plump 

 golden caterpillars, shivering and squirming in the gusty 

 puffing of the petulant wind ; but being flowers, how 

 eagerly we clutch at them, gather and toy with them. 

 Why not feel the same towards caterpillars themselves 1 

 They are as a rule quite as harmless, and many are far 

 more beautiful than any flower. 



The army of frogs in the marsh was not so brave as 

 the little soldier in the brook. Every blast of the March 

 winds quickly silenced them for a time. From many 



