Wood Notes 



tie spice-bush, with the faint fragrance of a universal 

 kindness, that does in a humble way in moist woods 

 what the foisythia is doing more brilliantly in more aris- 

 tocratic surroundings on our lawns. The spice-bush is a 

 pleasant thing, in foliage, flower and fruit, and they 

 have not disdained to make considerable use of it in the 

 Park, although I have a suspicion that, like some other 

 wild things, it is not pleasantly disposed toward artifi- 

 cial treatment. Awake with the first bright color of the 

 season (except perhaps that of the marsh-marigolds, often 

 called cowslips) its leafless branches suddenly bursting 

 into clusters of minute yellow blossoms just as the pine 

 creeper and yellow redpoll arrive, this little shrub, plant- 

 ing itself everywhere, is the most conspicuous object in 

 the bleak woods of early April. 



Like the spongy soil, our memories are more impres- 

 sionable for the earliest beauties of the year, so that the 

 simpler things of April stir more enthusiasm than the 

 much finer displays of May and June. Would the world 

 really hold the violet and anemone in such affectionate 

 regard, if they did not time their coming so as to mo- 

 nopolize our hearts, but delayed until they must be con- 

 tent with our subdivided affections? I hope that the 

 world would bend as eagerly over a bed of violets or a 

 flowering trillium in the "height of the season" as in 

 the cold air and soggy soil of early spring ; but I sus- 

 pect that we annually become a trifle blase, that the fine 

 edge of our sentiments is a little worn off in summer, 

 and it is a godsend that we have a winter in which to 

 starve our eyes and recuperate our feelings. 



But to return — the spice-bush does not feel that it 

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