grance to the rich wild earth beneath. Whither these melt it is
hard to say. They whiten the ground for a few brief hours and are
gone. I can fancy the wee sprites of earth in whatever form they
happen to dwell at the moment, beetle or bumblebee, eft or elve,
gathering these eagerly by scent and by sight, to store them away
below ground for slow transmutations of their own. If wrapped in
bed-clothing like this it is no miracle that rough grubs should
come forth gauzy winged and beautiful insects that flit by and
delight the eye of the naturalist. If fed upon these it is no
wonder that summer wild flowers of the deep woods can show us
delicate tints and woo us with dainty perfumes, the very memory of
which is happiness for long after. Thus the tree makes kindly
messengers of even the rough winds of March that sometimes charge
back upon us for a day, obliging them to carry the very essence of
the gentle good will and fondness of the spring farther than it
might otherwise reach and finally bidding them faint and die for
very love of the perfume and beauty they bear. Thus the wild apple
tree, still the brooding mother of all woodland things, sends
fragrant love and kindness questing far through the rougher
woodland till its gentle spirit seems to imbue all things. In all
the pastures there is none like it.

CHAPTER IX

MIDSUMMER MOONLIGHT

All through the afternoon of the fervent July day I could see the
sun sifting and winnowing his gold for the sunset. All the morning
his alchemic forces had been quietly transmuting gray mists of
midnight, vapors from damp humus, moisture from lush leaves and I
know not what other pure though common elements into the precious
glow that began to haze the west soon after noon. The old belief
that the alchemist at his utmost cunning could recreate rose
blooms from their own ashes had sure foundation. I have seen the
sun do it every June in countless gardens where, out of this same
humus and soft rains, his potency works the transmutation as if in
a night. So on July days this father of transmuters melts in his
crucible, of which the earth under our feet seems always the very
bottom of the bowl, many ingredients, and distils from them this
pure gold. Soon after he passes the meridian you may see it
sprinkled lavishly from zenith to horizon, and as the day wanes it
gilds all sordid things with the glow of romance. By it we get the
clearer vision and have thoughts of the unseen thi