Wild shrubs upon the mountain slopes are in thronging bloom. Delicately pink and nectar-laden, the prodigal azalea calls to the honeybees, always bitterly industrious and severely intent upon duty amid a general festival. It is a great satisfaction sometimes to find a bee overtaken by intoxication and night within a water lily or hollyhock, his obtrusive good example smothered sweetly. For once he was not at the hive in time to murmur of his heavy day of posting from garden to meadow! Dowered with a white simplicity beyond the pensive moonflower’s, the bracts of the dogwood seem afloat among gray branches—misty, seen far off; clear cut to nearer view; eloquent of spring; without fragrance as without pretense. The mountain laurel holds above gleaming leaves its marvelously carven cups, faint pink or white, amber-flecked. All winter it has kept the green, when ground pine lay snowbound and spruces sagged with sleet. The victor may find his wreath at any time of year, for our laurel has it ready. High toward the stars in regal manner the tulip trees lift their broader chalices. It is probably in these, on the topmost boughs, that the fairies sleep where mortals never climb up to look in. Bilberry, shadbush, and brier stand in May marriage robes of white, quiet and beautiful, scented at dusk when the sun warmth begins to leave the blossoms. The red haw wears a little fine golden lace. Farther south the rhododendron is gorgeously displayed—magenta verging on damson. The air is precious with the plentiful sweetness of lilac and magnolia, of the memorial lavender lilac that summons homesickness to city parks on evenings of May. The carmine glow of the flowering quince is here, brought from its tropic wilderness. The long flushed curve of the almond spray bends meekly toward the sod. Opulent is every bush, though its blossoming may be secret. In colors beloved of kings, the velvet, minutely perfect iris commands the garden path. Beside it in despair the old-time bleeding-heart laments, and the bells of the valley lily hang, chiming fragrance. Impatient climb the red-stalked peonies. The currant is in green but pleadingly sweet blossom. High, thick grass and clover in May fields are only the setting for the dazzling buttercup, who shakes the dews from her closed petals before daybreak and folds them prayerfully at about the time the birds turn home. First white daisies, supremely fresh and lucid as all May’s glories are, show a few misleading foam flecks of the flood with which they intend to overwhelm the crop of hay. Feathery yellow of the wild mustard nods beside the road as if it were not anchored to immovable roots. Already the sapphire star grass is hiding in the meadows. Gone are the blossoms of the wild strawberry. The canary-colored five-finger vine would lace itself over the world, given but half an opportunity. So would the bramble of the fair white blossom and maroon-bordered leaf. [Illustration]