Flowers of Mystery 
453 
that “ cat-sticks ” were poor spindling sticks, either 
growing or in a load of cut wood. I heard a coun- 
try parson say as he regarded ruefully a gift of a 
sled load of firewood, “ The deacon’s load is all cat- 
sticks.” Of course a cat-stick was also the stick 
used in the game of ball called tip-cat. Myself 
when young did much practise another loved ball 
game, “one old cat,” a local favorite, perhaps a local 
name. “ Cat-ice,” too, is a good old New England 
word and thing ; it is the thin layer of brittle ice 
formed over puddles, from under which the water 
has afterward receded. If there lives a New Eng- 
lander too old or too hurried to rejoice in stepping 
upon and crackling the first “cat-ice” on a late au- 
tumn morning, then he is a man ; for no New Eng- 
land girl, a century old, could be thus indifferent. 
It is akin to rustling through the deep-lying autumn 
leaves, which affords a pleasure so absurdly dispro- 
portioned and inexplicable that it is almost mysteri- 
ous. Some of us gouty ones, alas ! have had to 
give up the “ cat-slides ” which were also such a de- 
light ; the little stretches of glare ice to which we 
ran a few steps and slid rapidly over with the im- 
petus. But I must not let my New England folk- 
words lure me away from my subject, even on a 
tempting “ cat-slide.” 
Though garden flowers run everywhere that they 
will, they are not easily forced to become wild 
flowers. We hear much of the pleasure of sowing 
garden seeds along the roadside, and children are 
urged to make beautiful wild gardens to be the delight 
of passers-by. Alphonse Karr wrote most charmingly 
