It never pays to be a clam.  It is very meet, right, and the bounden duty of every quadruped, biped and decapod to prey upon the clam.

Farther down is a sandy hollow which was deep under water in the great January freshet.  That freshet deposited a new layer of sand and also bushels of clam and snail shells of all sizes and species.  They lie so thick they may be taken up by the shovelful.  Two or three dead fish are also found.  What a fine fossiliferous stratum will be found here about a hundred million years from now!

In March the rains and the melting of the “robin snows” soften the leathery lichens and their painted circles on the trees and rocks vary from olive gray and green to bright red and yellow.  They revel in the moist gray days.  And the mosses which draw a tapestry of tender velvet around the splintered rocks in the timber quarries and strangely veil the ruin of the fallen forest kings,—­how much they add to the beauty of the landscape in the interval between the going of the snow and the coming of the grass!  The rich dark green of the common hair-cap clothes many a bank with beauty, the dense tufts of the broom moss hide the ruin and assuage the grief where an exalted forest monarch has been cast down by the storm.  The silvery Bryum shows abundantly on the sandy fields and the thick green velvet mats of the Anomodon creep up the bases of the big water elms in the swamps.  The delicate branchlets of the beautiful fern moss are recompense for a day’s search, and the bright yellow-green Schreber’s Hypnum, with its red stems, is a rich rug for reluctant feet.  The moist rocks down which the water trickles into the ravine below are stained green and orange by the glossy Entodon.  These patient mosses cover wounds in the landscape gently as tender thoughts soothe aching voids left by the loss of those we love.  They lead us into the most entrancing bits of the woodland scenery—­shaded rills, flowing springs, dashing cascades, fairy glens, and among the castellated rocks of the dark ravines.  Their parts are so exquisitely perfect, almost they persuade the nature-lover to degenerate into a mere naturalist, walking through the woods seeing nothing but sporophytes through his lens, just as a rare book sometimes causes the bibliophile to become a bibliomaniac, reading nothing but catalogues.  It is a credit to be a bibliomaniac provided one is a bibliophile as well.  And the best moss naturalists are they whose hearts respond to the enthusiasm in Ruskin’s closing paragraphs of Leaves Motionless.

* * * * *

The yielding odorous soil is promiseful after its stubborn hardness of winter months and we watch it eagerly for the first herbaceous growth.  Often this is one of the fern allies, the field horsetail.  The appearance of its warm, mushroom-colored, fertile stems is one of the first signs of returning spring, and its earliest stems are found in dry sandy places.  The buds containing its fruiting cones have long been all complete, waiting for the first warm day, and when the start is finally made the tubered rootstocks, full of nutriment, send up the slender stem at the rate of two inches a day.