Back in the deep woods a hermit thrush was
singing his chant to the rising sun. Orioles were sowing the pure, sweet
air with notes of gold, poured out while on wing. The robins were only
chirping now, for their morning songs had awakened all the other birds
an hour ago. Scolding red-wings tilted on half the bushes. Excepting
late species of haws, tree bloom was almost gone, but wild flowers made
the path border and all the wood floor a riot of colour. Elnora, born
among such scenes, worked eagerly, but to the city man, recently from a
hospital, they seemed too good to miss. He frequently stooped to examine
a flower face, paused to listen intently to the thrush or lifted his
head to see the gold flash which accompanied the oriole's trailing
notes. So Elnora uttered the first cry, as she softly lifted branches
and peered among the grasses.
"My find!" she called. "Bring the box, mother!"
Philip came hurrying also. When they reached her she stood on the path
holding a pair of moths. Her eyes were wide with excitement, her cheeks
pink, her red lips parted, and on the hand she held out to them clung
a pair of delicate blue-green moths, with white bodies, and touches of
lavender and straw colour. All around her lay flower-brocaded grasses,
behind the deep green background of the forest, while the sun slowly
sifted gold from heaven to burnish her hair. Mrs. Comstock heard a sharp
breath behind her.
"Oh, what a picture!" exulted Philip at her shoulder.
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