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Traitor to its kind, it has dropped from the ranks of the laurels, the heather, and the jolly little wintergreens to the colourless life of a parasite, hobnobbing with clammy toadstools and slimy lichens. Its common names are all appropriate, ice-plant, ghost-flower, corpse-plant.
The wintergreens sweet under foot, sweet in the hands of the children, the whole air full of sweetness. Naturally their quest led them to the thicker and wilder grown part of the wood; prettier there, they declared it to be, where the ground became broken, and there were ups and downs, and rocky dells and heights, and to turn a corner was to come upon something new.
Both children came to their feet, one saying, "Marmaduke!" the other, "Mr. Dinwiddie!" "What do two such mature people do when they get together? I should like to know," said the young man as he reached the top. "Talking, sir," said Daisy. "Picking wintergreens," said the other, in a breath. "Talking! I dare say you do.
Anybody who has ever been nine, or ten, or eleven years old, and gone in the woods looking for wintergreens, knows what followed. The eager plunging into the thickest of the thicket; the happy search of every likely bank or open ground in the shelter of some rock; the careless, delicious straying from rock to rock, and whithersoever the bank or the course of the thicket might lead them.
I made a nosegay of blue violets and sweetbrier leaves; I regaled myself with wintergreens in memory of my childhood; I wrote up my note-book; but never a blue feather did I see. The next day, between showers, I tried the north, with a guide a visiting Massachusetts ornithologist to show me a partridge nest with the bird sitting.
If both things have gone on together, like your answers," said he, helping himself out of Nora's stock of wintergreens, "you must have had a basket of talk." "That basket isn't full, sir," said Daisy. "My dear," said Mr. Dinwiddie, diving again into his sister's, "that basket never is; there's a hole in it somewhere." "You are making a hole in mine," said Nora, laughing.
"I didn't know how late it was, mamma." "Where have you been?" "I was picking wintergreens with Nora Dinwiddie." "I hope you brought me some," said Mr. Randolph. "Oh, I did, papa; only I have not put them in order yet." "And where did you and Nora part?" "Here, at the door, mamma." "Was she alone?" "No, ma'am Mr.
In the edge of the thicket, at the side of the church, was the girl whose appearance Daisy had hailed. "I sha'n't wait for you," cried her brother, as she sprang down. "No go I don't want you," and Daisy made few steps over the greensward to the thicket. Then it was, "Oh, Nora! how do you do? what are you doing?" and "Oh, Daisy! I'm getting wintergreens."
The memory of my youthful Sundays is fragrant with wintergreens, black birch, and crinkle-root, to say nothing of the harvest apples that grew in our neighbor's orchard; and the memory of my Sundays in later years is fragrant with arbutus, and the showy orchid, and wild strawberries, and touched with the sanctity of woodland walks and hilltops.
They drove in the first place for a good distance through her own home grounds, coming out to the public road by the church where Mr. Pyne preached, and near which the wintergreens grew. It looked beautiful this morning, with its ivy all washed and fresh from the rain. Indeed all nature was in a sort of glittering condition.
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