Down the hill crept the masses of colour, changing from dry soil to water growth.
High around the blue-green surface of the lake waved lacy heads of wild rice, lower cat-tails, bulrushes, and marsh grasses; arrowhead lilies lifted spines of pearly bloom, while yellow water lilies and blue water hyacinths intermingled; here and there grew a pink stretch of water smartweed and the dangling gold of jewel flower.

Over the water, bordering the edge, starry faces of white pond lilies floated.

Blue flags waved graceful leaves, willows grew in clumps, and vines clambered everywhere.
Among the growth of the lake shore, duck, coot, and grebe voices commingled in the last chattering hastened splash of securing supper before bedtime; crying killdeers crossed the water, and overhead the nighthawks massed in circling companies.

Betsy climbed the hill and at every step the Girl cried, "Slower! please go slower!" With wide eyes she stared around her.
"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME IT WOULD BE LIKE THIS ?" she demanded in awed tones.
"Have I had opportunity to describe much of anything ?" asked the Harvester.

"Besides, I was born and reared here, and while it has been a garden of bloom for the past six years only, it always has been a picture; but one forgets to say much about a sight seen every day and that requires the work this does." "That white mist down there, what is it ?" she marvelled.
"Pearls grown by the Almighty," answered the Harvester.