here a warm rosy tint and there a ghostly pallid 

 blossom. This soil, the detritus of glacial torrents, 

 despite its many washings, has not given up all its 

 gold, but is rich in arbutus and in pedata violets. 

 It is, after all, granite, the mother-lode of the earth ; 

 granite after endless transmutations but still retain- 

 ing some of its virtues. 



To the first flowers belongs a charm, the most 

 exquisite of any, something tender and appealing, 

 as though they enshrined the fairest virtues of the 

 year — its modesty, its purity, its sweetness — in 

 violets, anemones and bloodroot. This charm, so 

 elusive, has never been described, nor shall be in- 

 deed. It is like music which is a language in 

 itself and will bear no translation. The bee must 

 approach these with some humility and more gen- 

 tleness than is shown to the sturdy blossoms of 

 summer. They are eminently the "gentle race" 

 of flowers, born in the enchanted time. 



We go with hungry eyes at this season. By 

 midsummer we have been well feasted and no 

 longer see individual blossoms so much as masses 

 of bloom. Bloodroot and hepatica are like the 

 dewdrops of early morning which disappear before 

 the sun. They can be found just once in a year; 



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