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Updated: June 21, 2025
Around the edge of the meadow Peter circled, his feet deep in buttercups and red fire-flowers, and crushing softly ripe strawberries that grew in scarlet profusion in the open, until he came to a screen of young jackpines, and through these he quietly and apologetically nosed his way.
"Oh, Barry, don't get started!" his cousin impatiently implored. "I'm too tired to listen. Come out and fix the table." "Wish I could really help you," said Barry, as they crossed the hall; and as a further attempt to soothe her ruffled feelings, he added amiably, "The place looks fine. The buttercups came up, didn't they?" "Beautifully! You were a dear to get them," said Mrs.
"I feel at home already. Susie, did those violets on my table grow in your garden?" "Oh, no," replied Susie. "I found them in the woods by the creek. And the buttercups, didn't you see them in the glass, too?" "Buttercups so early ?" asked Uncle Robert. "Oh, yes, the low ones do come early. You must take me down where they grow some day." "We'll go to-morrow," said Susie.
The buttercups and the daisies would be blooming when we were working the road, and the timothy grass about ready to do so pointing to the near approach of the great event of the season, the one major task toward which so many other things pointed "haying;" the gathering of our hundred or more tons of meadow hay. This was always a hard-fought campaign.
If any one had gone round the fields on old May-day, the 13th, his May-day, they might have found the deep blue bird's-eye veronica, anemones, star-like stitchworts, cowslips, buttercups, lesser celandine, daisies, white blackthorn, and gorse in bloom in short, a list enough to make a page bright with colour, though the wind might be bitter.
And as I perceive I am growing wise, and what is even worse, allegorical, and as these are tendencies to be fought against as long as possible, I'll go into the garden and play with the babies, who at this moment are sitting in a row on the buttercups, singing what appear to be selections from popular airs. June June 3rd. The Man of Wrath, I observe, is laying traps for me and being deep.
The buttercups drooped over her high, white brow and played peep with her glowing eyes. A dreamy smile hovered around her poppy-red mouth a significant smile which, to those of us skilled in its interpretation, betokened the sentence which soon came. "I know a story about a man who always had his own opinion " The Story Girl got no further.
A ruddy kingfisher swiftly drawing himself, as you might draw a stroke with a pencil, over the surface of the yellow buttercups, and away above the hedge. Hart's-tongue fern, thick with green, so green as to be thick with its colour, deep in the ditch under the shady hazel boughs. White meadow-sweet lifting its tiny florets, and black-flowered sedges.
Ridley's, the last of a row in a lane which led out into the Dulwich fields on one side, and was itself full of buttercups in spring, and blackberries in autumn. But my chief remaining impressions of those days are attached to Hunter Street.
So she ran away, and left the hot, secretive, omniscient place with its fierce white and its crafty shadows. She reached a tiny field that ran up to the woods, and there, among the brilliantly varnished buttercups, the bees sounded like the tides coming in on the coasts of faery. Hazel forgot her dread an inexplicable sickening dread of the quarry.
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