A few yards aside
from the path he found, under a patch of snow and dead leaves, the
pink-and-white blossoms and the waxy green leaves of the trailing
arbutus, that fragrant harbinger of the old Mother's awakening,
and June breathed in from it the very breath of spring. Near by
were turkey peas, which she had hunted and eaten many times.
"You can't put that arbutus in a garden," said Hale, "it's as wild
as a hawk."
Presently he had the little girl listen to a pewee twittering in a
thorn-bush and the lusty call of a robin from an apple-tree. A
bluebird flew over-head with a merry chirp--its wistful note of
autumn long since forgotten. These were the first birds and
flowers, he said, and June, knowing them only by sight, must know
the name of each and the reason for that name. So that Hale found
himself walking the woods with an interrogation point, and that he
might not be confounded he had, later, to dip up much forgotten
lore. For every walk became a lesson in botany for June, such a
passion did she betray at once for flowers, and he rarely had to
tell her the same thing twice, since her memory was like a vise--
for everything, as he learned in time.
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