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. Her eyes were quicker than his, too, and now she pointed to a snowy blossom with a deeply lobed leaf. “Whut's that?” “Bloodroot,” said Hale, and he scratched the stem and forth issued scarlet drops. “The Indians used to put it on their faces and tomahawks”--she knew that word and nodded--“and I used to make red ink of it when I was a little boy.” “No!” said June. With the next look she found a tiny bunch of fuzzy hepaticas. “Liver-leaf.” “Whut's liver?” Hale, looking at her glowing face and eyes and her perfect little body, imagined that she would never know unless told that she had one, and so he waved one hand vaguely at his chest: “It's an organ--and that herb is supposed to be good for it.” “Organ? Whut's that?” “Oh, something inside of you.” June made the same gesture that Hale had. “Me?” “Yes,” and then helplessly, “but not there exactly.” June's eyes had caught something else now and she ran for it: “Oh! Oh!” It was a bunch of delicate anemones of intermediate shades between white and red-yellow, pink and purple-blue. “Those are anemones.” “A-nem-o-nes,” repeated June. “Wind-flowers--because the wind is supposed to open them.” And, almost unconsciously, Hale lapsed into a quotation: “'And where a tear has dropped, a wind-flower blows.'” “Whut's that?” said June quickly. “That's poetry.” “Whut's po-e-try?” Hale threw up both hands. “I don't know, but I'll read you some--some day.” By that time she was gurgling with delight over a bunch of spring beauties that came up, root, stalk and all, when she reached for them. “Well, ain't they purty?” While they lay in her hand and she looked, the rose-veined petals began to close, the leaves to droop and the stem got limp. “Ah-h!” crooned June. “I won't pull up no more o' THEM.” '“These little dream-flowers found in the spring.' More poetry, June.” A little later he heard her repeating that line to herself. It was an easy step to poetry from flowers, and evidently June was groping for it.