It was common wayside "Bouncing Bet," but the Harvester called it "soapwort." He took every other plant in his way across the bed, and when he digged a heavy load he carried it home, stripped the leaves, and spread them on trays, while the roots he topped, washed, and put to dry also.

Then he whistled for Belshazzar and went to lunch.
As he passed down the road to the cabin his face was a study of conflicting emotions, and his eyes had a far away appearance of deep thought.

Every tree of his stretch of forest was rustling fresh leaves to shelter him; dogwood, wild crab, and hawthorn offered their flowers; earth held up her tribute in painted trillium faces, spring beauties, and violets, blue, white, and yellow.

Mosses, ferns, and lichen decorated the path; all the birds greeted him in friendship, and sang their purest melodies.

The sky was blue, the sun bright, the air perfumed for him; Belshazzar, always true to his name, protected every footstep; Ajax, the shimmering green and gold wonder, came up the hill to meet him; the white doves circled above his head.