312 Next to the Ground 



stems inclined to curves, the leaves like 

 those of a hickory, only less finished and 

 of coarser cells. Against the memory of 

 the leaves, the blossoms are anachronistic — 

 they are so fine, so delicate, so rarely scented. 

 They grow in long sprays that recall the 

 sprays of a white star-flowered orchid, with 

 their golden eyes, and crimson flecks at the 

 base of each petal. They come out all over 

 the tree, while it is bare of leaves, clothing it 

 in beauty as of the starry night. Sometimes 

 the blooming is so rathe, a quick sleet falls 

 upon it — then indeed is the tree a fairy 

 spectacle. It does not grow plentifully, even 

 at the waterside, and very rarely ever away 

 from it. 



The groundlings — windflowers, wild flax, 

 wild violets, harebells, larkspur and running 

 fern, push up as the snow melts. So does 

 the grass. Blue grass haunts and clings to 

 the light earth of waste spaces along the 

 creek channels. Nimble Will grows with it, 

 and in the wettest earth, low branchy clumps 

 of a dwarf reed. Occasionally there are 

 rushes, but the muskrats give account of 

 them, serving them as, later on, they will 

 serve the young corn in the bottoms. Just as 

 the corn-stalks are ready to tassel, the muskrats 

 gnaw them down, drag them to the water, 

 and float them upstream or down to their 



