12 A CHAPTER ON FLOWERS. 



moss gleam out from their velvet sheaths, mark the pale beauty 

 of yon clump of violets, whose perfume would betray their 

 presence, even though we saw them not. Behold the gorgeous 

 garb of that glowing woodlily, lifting its head, as if in wonder 

 at this sudden intrusion of sunlight upon its royal retiracy. 



Let us seat ourselves at the root of this rough old oak. The 

 short grass lies thick beneath our feet, while a cushion of rich 

 velvet moss is spread over the rustic couch we have chosen. 

 Oh ! we have driven a tiny snake from his covert, and he glides 

 rapidly away from his woman-born enemy. The squirrel — the 

 harlequin of the woods — bounds in antic mirth above our 

 heads, and as he looks down upon us with a sort of ludicrous 

 gravity in his little black eyes, seems disposed to test our good 

 humor by showering his nutshells in the midst of us. The 

 rabbit gazes out from his hiding place, and then, pointing his 

 long ears in terror, leaps away to find some more secure retreat. 

 Nor are there wanting sweet sounds in this sylvan hall. High 

 on the topmost bough of the tallest tree, (for he is the most 

 ambitious of warblers,) is poised the bluebird, making the clear 

 air echo with his rich notes. The gushing melody of the wood- 

 robin comes at intervals like the bubbling over of a musical 

 fountain, while blended in sweet concord come the voices of 

 an undistinguishable throng of lesser songsters. And when, 

 beneath the midday sun, the birds cease their carols, then we 

 have the vague music of leafy harps, the distant murmur of a 

 mountain stream, the quiet ripple of a woodland brook. 



