April 19, 1913 
FOREST AND STREAM 
493 
Myth and Miracle 
By WILLIS BOYD ALLEN 
I T is a pretty myth, that of the seven lovely 
young nymphs who hunted with Diana, 
were in turn rudely hunted by Orion, and 
were compassionately changed by Jupiter, first 
into doves and then into stars. But what in¬ 
terests me most in the story of the Pleiades is 
the fact that of this spring-time constellation 
Maia, for whom our dear, fickle month is 
named, was foremost in the bevy of ’laughing 
girls; as May leads the procession of the seven 
golden months of the New England year. It 
must be borne in mind that all the tearful ad¬ 
jectives applied by English poets to April 
properly belong to our own May time, half of 
which is “so awfully like Mayn’t.” 
“Aprille, alacke, 
Her snowy cloke flung backe 
And gailie cast aside; 
Then cryed. 
With little wilfulle gustes of raine, 
Because she could not have her cloke again.” 
But it is in the following month that we 
New English have learned to expect alterna¬ 
tions of snow, rain, ice and sultry heat. Maia, 
it will be remembered, was the mother of 
Mercury, who must have received his “tempera¬ 
ment” from her, before transmitting it (ac¬ 
cording to our friends the astrologers) to all 
those born while his planet is in the ascendant, 
to the end of time. But with all her moods, 
her changeful ways, her dainty poutings and 
tears, her cold rebuffs and exquisite relentings, 
May is the Lady of the year. As in a drawing¬ 
room the subtle influence of a lady is felt the 
moment she enters, so this lovely month, with 
arbutus trailing from her hand as she ap¬ 
proaches us, and violets clasped to her bosom 
as she bids farewell, captivates and enthralls. 
Her voice is the music of bird-note and un¬ 
fettered streamlet; her garment sun-shot mist, 
over the soft, brightening velvet of lawn and 
meadow. 
One day in late April, not long since, it was 
my good fortune to visit a certain farm in 
Maine. Leaving the gray ■ old house, over 
whose uneven floors so many generations of 
children have crept and toddled until, erect and 
blithely strong, they fared forth into the world 
of which they as yet knew so little; leaving the 
house, I walked slowly down through the or¬ 
chard, across the field; climbed a pair of 
lichened bars, and strolled' on into the pine 
wood that notches the horizon on every side 
of the old farm. Here I was fain to pick my 
way along the slope above the brook, for great 
baqks of snow still lingered in sheltered spots, 
and the patches of brown needle-work between 
afforded but slippery and precarious footing. 
My stroll was limited, after all; for walking was 
difficult, a cloud was partly across the setting 
sun, throwing a red flush athwart the snow; the 
swollen stream was brawling over its banks, and 
altogether, in spite of a cheering clump of pussy¬ 
willows, the forest was rather dreary, in that 
march-land between winter and spring. 
Two weeks later I visited the same spot. 
May had come, and the transformation was 
marvelous. In place of the snow-drift was a 
bank of loveliest white blossoms, each with its 
rosy sunset tint. The brook was singing gaily, 
and from a neighboring thicket came the flute 
notes of a thrush, voicing the very gladness, 
the holiness, the peace of a new-born world. 
Much discussion has arisen of late, in the 
city of Mather, of Channing, of Brooks, con¬ 
cerning the verity of the scriptural accounts of 
the New Testament miracles; but here surely 
was a miraculum, the more, not the less mar¬ 
velous for its repetition year by year, which 
one was forced to believe; the literal trans¬ 
formation of a snowbank into a perfumed drift 
of spotless beauty; the transmuting of the mire 
of every meadow and roadside strip of turf into 
heaps of homely cowslip and dandelion gold; 
the blue sky itself reflected in a hill-slope of 
violets. 
As I turned toward home, the stream and 
the thrush sang together to the soft diapason 
accompaniment of the pines; and on the post of 
the mossy fence a song-sparrow, with its meek 
contralto chant of contentment, added the last 
perfect note to the sweet, insistent voice of 
May. 
Just now I am stopping at a country house 
not twenty miles from Boston. The change 
from the anxious, nervous bustle and roar of 
the city to the quietness and peace of pine 
woods, bird songs and rural life is marvelous. 
Once more I wonder why we forsake all this 
for the other. In the early morning we are 
awakened by the distant clarion of cocks, and 
the fluting of robins in the elms that stretch 
their sheltering boughs almost over the old 
house. The far-off rattle and hum of a trolley 
car, softened to a cascade-like murmur, brings 
the only suggestion of modern days. The green 
turf around the house is dotted with dandelions. 
“Don’t you wish they were real gold?” said a 
little girl to me, voicing the ever-human craving 
for money. For the present, at any rate, I 
prefer the soft, sonsie yellow blossoms to the 
hard, clashing metal. 
I have just returned from a five-mile walk 
along country roads, which led me “by green 
pastures and still waters.” At one time there 
was not a house in sight. A stream brimmed to 
its grassy banks, now and then a soft waft of 
rain fell, doing only good. These soft, gentle 
spring showers are the chosen type in the 
Scriptures for the blessing of Heaven, descend¬ 
ing upon the just and unjust, bringing sweet 
refreshment, inspiring new life. The birds to¬ 
day are alert, the foliage glistens, gleams 
among the grasses and sedges, and their dark 
pools widen to the stems of the surrounding 
alders and willows on their banks. A purple¬ 
winged .butterfly slants through a momentary 
ray of sunshine, happy in the new warmth and 
brightness. 
That was yesterday. To-day this is a world 
of golden light, soft south wind and apple- 
blossoms. The leaves of the fruit trees seem to 
spread and enlarge before our very eyes. The 
boughs are great drifted heaps of white and 
pink bloom, murmurous with the hum of bees. 
A robin glides swiftly from her nest as I ap¬ 
proach, returning when safety is assured, to 
brood over the sky-tinted eggs—“little music 
boxes,” Horace Lunt calls them—^from which 
the melodies are not yet set free. Hark! The 
first oriole is whistling merrily as he drifts to 
and fro in the swaying boughs of the elms in 
quest of a site for the nest that shall be his 
home for the season. He is the official herald 
of summer. “Oyez! Oyez!” he calls, in clear 
flute tones, “It has come. I am here. Snow 
is gone. Summer reigns. Long live the king!” 
The Hunters’ Paradise. 
BY C. M. STEWART. 
I want a home, a perfect dream. 
Away from all the haunts of man. 
Beside some winding mountain stream 
That wash her rocks and golden sand. 
Where I can roam or take my ease 
When twilight’s dreamy shadows fall. 
Where wafts the music on the breeze 
Of howling wolves or panther’s call. 
I want a home where I can see 
Old nature in her youthful bloom. 
Away from all that hampers me. 
Where city life is filled with gloom. 
I want to live where I can get 
The pleasures that belong to me, 
W’ith one true friend that can’t forget 
This world was made for such as we. 
I want a home all decked in green. 
Where towering peaks rise far and high, 
And shady dales lurk in between 
Beneath the azure summer sky; 
Where balmy spring her beauty crimps 
And warbling songsters pipe by day. 
And lovely bands of mountain nymphs 
With fairies dance the nights away. 
I want a home, a rustic cot— 
Tlie mansion has no charm for me; 
I want it in some quiet spot 
Away from care and sorrow free. 
Beside some restless, limpid stream, 
Where I can stroll at break of day. 
And cast my hook in fancy’s dream 
Where rainbow trout and cropy play. 
I want a home where nature dwells. 
Away from all the city’s throng. 
Where bob-o-link sings in the dells 
With merry note and warbling song. 
Where cedars grace the mountain chain 
And wooded vales are green and gay. 
With some good friend that feels the same 
We'd let the future fade away. 
I want a hom.e where I can take 
My boat and gun and come and go. 
Or paddle over stream and lake 
With some dear friend like one I know. 
Where twilight shadows gently sway 
When autumn’s frosty nights appear. 
And watch the wilderness at play. 
Would fill a sportsman’s heart with cheer. 
I’d like a home, not made by hands 
That carve the marble or the stone— 
A cave where ancient roving bands 
Have left their bleach’d, cadav’rous bones; 
Where little limpid streamlets play 
Among the nodding daflodills. 
And murmur on their devious way 
Among the ferns and grassy hills. 
I want a home where I can see 
When autumn days their pleasures bring; 
The mountain crags so dear to me 
And fading scenes of vanished spring. 
When Indian summer’s fires glow, 
I love to watch the smokey haze. 
Or trail the wild buck and his doe 
Through scenes of wildest, deepest maze. 
There are over 7,000 ostriches in the Salt 
River Valley, Arizona, and the number is be¬ 
ing increased every year. This is eighty per 
cent, of the ostriches in the United States. 
