ch seemed vain, until a glint of yellow just ahead, too deep to
proceed from the spice-bush I was expecting to find, drew me to the very
edge of the water, there to see hanging over and reflected in the stream
a mass of golden catkins. Looking closely, and touching the little tree,
I disengaged a cloud of pollen and a score of courageous bees, evidently
much more pleased with the sweet birch than with the near-by
skunk-cabbage flowers. Sweet birch it was; the stiff catkins, that had
all winter held themselves in readiness, had just burst into bloom with
the sun's first warmth, introducing a glint of bright color into the
landscape, and starting the active double work of the bees, in
fertilizing flowers while gathering honey, that was not to be
intermitted for a single sunshine hour all through the season.

A little later, along the great Susquehanna, I found in full bloom other
trees of this same birch, beloved of boys--and of girls--for its
aromatic bark. Certainly picturesque and bright, the little trees were a
delight to the winter-wearied eye, the mahogany twigs and the golden
catkins, held at poise over the water, being full of spring suggestion.

All of the birches--I wish I knew them better!--are good to look at, and
I think the bees, the woodpeckers, the humming-birds and other wood folk
must find some of them good otherwise. At Eagles Mere there was a yellow
birch in the bark of which scores of holes had been drilled by the
woodpeckers or the bees, at regularly spaced intervals, to let the
forest life drink at will of the sweet sap. I remember also that my
attempt to photograph a score of bees, two large brown butterflies and
one humming-bird, all in attendance upon this birch feast, was a
surprising failure. I secured a picture of the holes in the bark, to be
sure, but the rapidly moving insect and bird life was too quick for an
exposure of even a fraction of a second, and my negative was lifeless.
These same yellow birches, picturesque in form, ragged in light-colored
bark, give a brightness all their own to the deep forest, mostly of
trees with rather somber bark.

A woodsman told me one summer of the use of old birch bark for starting
a fire in the wet woods, and I have since enjoyed collecting the bark
from fallen trees in the forest. It strips easily, in large pieces, from
decayed stems, and when thrown on an open fire, produces a cheery and
beautiful blaze, as well as much heat; while, if cunningly hand