preface 



WADING in deep " tides of grass," as 

 Swinburne phrases it, and stirring 

 with one's boots a " foam of flowers," has 

 not become a mere tradition. I could, 

 were I a poet, add something to reahty in 

 song by rhyming my annual experiences 

 in the South ; but even in plain prose I am 

 no adept, wherefore I shall be glad enough 

 if my facts make amends for my style. A 

 lover of nature and books may feel, while 

 reading these pages, some wafts of a fresh- 

 ness not mine, out of which I hope to get 

 due credit for what I have not done. 

 There seems to be no moral turpitude in 

 connection with stealing from the book of 



ix 



