pure delight that stopped me short.

"What now can _that_ be?" and I thought to myself that nature had played
some new prank on me.

I turned into the orchard, following my nose. It was not the peach buds,
nor the plums, nor the cherries, nor yet the beautiful new coloured
leaves of the grape, nor anything I could see along the grassy margin of
the pasture. There were other odours all about, old friends of mine, but
this was some shy and pleasing stranger come venturing upon my land.

A moment later I discovered a patch of low green verdure upon the
ground, and dismissed it scornfully as one of my ancient enemies. But
it is this way with enemies, once we come to know them, they often turn
out to have a fragrance that is kindly.

Well, this particular fierce enemy was a patch of chickweed. Chickweed!
Invader of the garden, cossack of the orchard! I discovered, however,
that it was in full bloom and covered with small, star-like white
blossoms.

"Well, now," said I, "are you the guilty rascal?"

So I knelt there and took my delight of it and a rare, delicate good
odour it was. For several days afterward I would not dig out the patch,
for I said to myself, "What a cheerful claim it makes these early days,
when most of the earth is still cold and dead, for a bit of
immortality."

The bees knew the secret already, and the hens and the blackbirds! And I