May-Day out of I'own. 95 



hear their leader say, " Here was my father's farm 

 some fifty years ago." 



And now to the near woods. Not even the 

 glorious grosbeak's matchless song could hold me, 

 and the sun gilded the sorrow of the lonely field. 

 I feared that I might fall to serious thinking, even 

 on a May-day, when I would shout and sing. 

 There were other pastures in which to browse, 

 and from them I would cull sweets free from the 

 slightest trace of bitterness. 



With eager steps, brushing the dew from butter- 

 cups, a few scattered oaks were soon reached that 

 as yet but hinted of their bright, broad leaves. 

 Not so the densely-clustered trees beyond. These 

 already shut from the mossy paths beneath the 

 sun's rays, leaving in cool, gray light the snowy 

 blossoms of dentaria, pale-blue houstonia, and 

 pink spring-beauty. The change from field to 

 forest was not abrupt, and yet was startling. All 

 had appealed to the ear before, now nature ap- 

 pealed only to the eye. Not birds and blossoms, 

 as the rambler would ever have it, but from birds 

 to blossoms, — from tuneful to silent beauty. It is 

 doubtful if nature in America presents a more 



