ar hee Be ye ACCORDING TO SEASON TALKS ABOVT THE FLOWERS IN. THE ORDER. OF THEIR APPEARANCE. IN. THE WOODS AND FIELDS ———s BY Ree Ww heer S PARK: DANA lea (“POW Galt, 72 Sane ae 2uG CENJAMIN JOHNSTON 620 LEXINGTON AVENUE ~ NEW YORK __ LBSiz ee Or errr rrr ACCORDING TO SEASON 4 ACCORDING TO SEASON TALKS ABOUT THE FLOWERS IN THE ORDER OF THEIR APPEARANCE IN THE WOODS AND FIELDS ; S98 a Mrs. WILLIAM STARR DANA AUTHOR OF “‘HOW TO KNOW THE WILD FLOWERS”’ ‘*Ah! well I mind the calendar, Faithful through a thousand years, ¥ Of the painted race of flowers.” ; —EMERSON LWBRARY ents | =. BREW YORK BOTANICAL — OREW' yorK CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS ' 1894 z 3 a o) : 8 : 1S) LAN DPN Preface In that the aim of this little volume ts the stimula- tion of an observant love of nature, and espe- cially the increase of knowledge about our plants, itis similar to “How to Know the Wild Flowers.” ‘But in each book this has been attempted in so different amood and manner that I feel confi- dent that neither encroaches upon the province of the other. The present classification—tf a word so suggestive of technicalities can be used —is “according to season,” and incidentally, locality, enabling the reader to start upon each ¥ tour of discovery with so clear a notion as to : what he may expect to find, and where he may expect to find tt, as materially to increase the chances of a successful expedition. Thanks are due to the editor of the Tribune for permission to republish the articles which ap- peared in his journal last summer. ; FRANCES THEODORA DANA, NEw York, March 5, 1894. Table of Contents INTRODUCTORY .. . APRIL AND EARLY MAY May AND EARLY JUNE JUNE AND EARLY JULY MIDSUMMER .. . HARLY AUGUST . . LATE AUGUST AND EARLY AUTUMN. . [DEX 2 «. SEPTEMBER III 129 151 Introductoty Self-sown my stately garden grows, The winds and wind-blown seed, Cold April rain and colder snows My hedges plant and feed. From mountains far and valleys near The harvests sown to-day Thrive in all weathers without fear,— Wild planters, plant away! —EMERSON. Behold there in the woods the fine madman . he accosts the grass and the trees; he feels the binwd of the violet, the clover, and the lily in his veins; and he talks with the brook that wets his foot.—EMERSON. Introductory Dee we know so little, as a eon people, of our birds, trees, rocks and flowers, is not due, I think, so much to any in- born lack of appreciation of the beautiful or interesting, as to the fact that we have been obliged to concentrate our energies in those directions which seemed to lead to some immediate material advantage, leaving us little time to expend upon the study of such objects as promised to yield no tangible remuneration. Then, too, our struggle for existence has taken place largely in towns where there is almost nothing to awaken any dormant love of 3 — Introductory nature. But, little by little, we are changing all that. Each year a larger portion of our city population is able to seek the refreshment and inspiration of the country during those months when it is almost, if not quite, at its loveliest. And while among this constantly increas- ing class, there are many, undoubtedly, who ‘‘ having eyes to see, see not,’’ even among sights sufficiently fraught with interest, one would suppose, to awaken the curiosity of the dullest, yet there are others, many others, who can cry with Mr. Norman Gale, ‘* And oh, my heart has understood The spider’s fragile line of lace, The common weed, the woody space!” who are quick to detect each bird-song, and eager to trace it to its source; who follow curiously the tiny tracks of the wood creatures; who note the varied outlines of the forest leaves, and discover 4 Introductory the smallest of the flowers that grows be- neath them. . If we do not happen ourselves to be blessed with a natural turn for observa- tion, a little companionship with one of these more fortunate beings will persuade us, I think, that the habit is one which it would be both possible and desirable to cultivate. It had never occurred to me, for example, that it would be worth while to look for wild flowers on Fifth Avenue, until a certain morning when a keen- eyed botanical companion stooped and plucked from an earth-filled chink in its pavement, a little blossom which had found its way hither from some country lane. Since then I have tried to keep my wits about me even on that highway of the Philistines. ; We are prone, most of us, to be inac- curate as well as unobservant; and I know of no better antidote to inaccuracy than a faithful study of plants. It is 5 -— Introductory sometimes difficult for the flower-lover to control his impatience when he hears his favorites recklessly miscalled ; and in this improving exercise he has ample oppor- tunity to become proficient, for many people cling with peculiar tenacity and unreasonableness to their first erroneous impression of a flower’s name. They consider anything so vague and poetic fair game for their ready imaginations, glibly tacking the name of one flower to another with inconsequential lightheart- edness. Occasionally they have really been misled by some similarity of sound. Such was the case of an acquaintance of mine who persisted in informing the va- rious companions of his rambles that the little pink-flowered shrub which blossoms in June on our wooded hillsides was the sheep-sorrel ; and refused to be persuaded that the correct title was sheep - laurel. His ear had caught the words incorrect- ly; but although this explanation was 6 Introductory suggested, supplemented by the argu- ments that the laurel-like look of the flowers at once betrayed their lineage, and that the sheep -sorrel was the plant with halberd-shaped leaves and tiny clus- tered flowers which in spring tinges with red the grassy uplands, he would only re- ply with dignified decision that his convic- tion was based on trustworthy authority. So, perhaps, in at least one small circle, sheep-laurel is sheep-sorrel to this day. But the uninitiated probably allow their imaginations -to run more rife with the orchids than with any other flowers. They are usually quite positive as to the general correctness of their conception of an orchid, and unless you are prepared to be made the object of a very genuine aversion, you will beware of trying to convince them of the error of their ways. In response to any such attempt they will defiantly challenge you: ‘‘ Well, then, what zs anorchid ?’’ and woe betide you 7 Introductory if you cannot couch your reply in half a dozen words of picturesque and unmis- takable description. ‘The term orchid is dear to their hearts. Whenever they discover a rare and striking flower they like to grace it with the title, and are sure to bear you a grudge for depriving them of the pleasurable power of confer- ring this mark of floral knighthood at will. Last year a friend of mine hap- pened for the first time upon the lovely fringed polygala. Her delight in its but- terfly beauty was unbounded. Having learned its name and studied its odd form she turned appealingly to me: ‘‘ Could you ever call it an orchid ?’’ she asked ; and I was unpleasantly conscious of my apparent churlishness in refusing to ennoble, even temporarily, so exquisite a creation. And perhaps it may be explained as well here as elsewhere that to the botanist the chief charm of the orchid lies in its 8 Introductory marvellous adaptation to fertilization by insects. Even the schoolboy nowadays is taught that the object of vivid coloring and striking form in a flower is not man’s delight, but the production of seed; in other words, the continuance of the species. He learns that by these means insects are attracted to the nectar-yielding blossoms, and that while rifling them fo their treasure, they inadvertently brush upon their bodies, from the little dust- bags known as anthers, some life-giving pollen which later they are sure to de- posit, again unconsciously, upon the moist, roughened disk or stigma of the next flower they visit. Here, the botany teaches, the tiny grains emit tubes which penetrate to the ovules in the ovary be- low and quicken them into life. . Now it is believed that “orchids are pe- culiarly unfitted to fertilize themselves— that is, if the pollen from the dust bags, or anthers, of any given flower of this 9 Introductory family should contrive to reach the moist disk or stigma of that same flower, the chances are that either the little grains would fail to act at all upon the ovules, or that the resultant seeds would lack the vigor so necessary to their survival of the fierce combat in which they are destined to engage. So we observe that the dif- ferent organs are often so placed that the pollen cannot reach the stigma of its own flower ; and in the orchids especially we find that the most elaborate devices are resorted to in order to attract insect visi- tors, and to insure the lodgement of the pollen in the right spot. After twenty years of study of the subject, Darwin doubted if he thoroughly understood the contrivances in a single orchid; so it is not to be wondered that these flowers, even the most inconspicuous among them, invariably awaken eager interest in the student of plant life. ‘‘T like flowers, but I hate to pull Io ‘Introductory ? them to pieces,’’ is the cry of the lazy nature-lover. Surely if we like a thing we wish to know something about it, to enjoy some intimacy with it, to learn its secrets. Who actually cares most for flowers, the man who glances admiringly at them and turns away, or he who stud- ies their structure, inquires into the func- tion of each part, reads the meaning of their marvellous coloring, and translates the invitation expressed by their fra- grance? I doubt if he who has never been so brutal as ‘‘to pull a flower to pieces,’’ even dimly understands all the strange, sweet joy of a wood walk these spring days, when we are tempted eagerly —almost breathlessly—but always rever- ently, with the reverence that is born of even the beginnings of knowledge, and by so much superior to that which springs from ignorance, to turn the pages and decipher what we can ‘Tn nature’s infinite book of secrecy.” It Introductory When we learn to call the flowers by name we take the first step toward a real intimacy with them. An eager sports- man who had always noticed and won- dered about the plants which he met on every fishing expedition, wrote to me a few weeks since that hitherto he had felt toward them as the charity-boy did about the alphabet, ‘‘ he knew the little beg- gars by sight, but he couldn’t tell their names!’’ And it has seemed as though a series of papers describing the different flowers to be found in the woods and fields, and by the roadsides, during the months designated in their titles, might not only be helpful to those who care to ‘¢tell their names,’’ but might increase the actual number of plants discovered, as one is far more likely to be successful in his search if he has a definite concep- tion of what he can reasonably hope to find. I2 Il April and Early May April and Early May he rides, he drives, fearful of missing some prize, with watchful eyes ‘ down- ward bent.’’ I confess to the warmest sympathy with that host or guide whose efforts as cicerone are constantly frustrated by the impatience with which his well- meant expositions are met. It must be exceedingly annoying to have the com- panion of your drive persist in scanning that side of the road which affords no view, apparently, save that of underbrush, while on the other hand stretch ranges of glorious mountains or peaceful valleys ; and simply irritating that the friend whom you have chosen to share with you the beauty of the sunset, say, should incon- siderately interrupt your dissertation upon the quality of the light which is envelop-. ing the hillside, by a disproportionate ex- clamation of joy as he tears a bedraggled- looking weed from a cleft in the rocks. No, the would-be botanist can hardly be called companionable, save to himself. 16 April and Early May Here, indeed, lies the secret of the charm. He needs no listener to make his rhap- sodies satisfying. Every walk abroad is companioned. He rides a hobby which carries him quite as satisfactorily as far more expensive steeds. Less unattainable than a hunter or an indefinite number of polo-ponies, equally it keeps him out of doors, yields him infinite excitement, at times bears him into actual danger, for many a botanist has taken his life into his hands in his search for a coveted specimen. One case of a life’s being lost for a flower has come within my personal knowledge. While as a cure for a cer- tain sort of nervousness, I know nothing better than a taste for field botany. A marshy, deep-grown meadow once meant to me only a place to be avoided at all costs, a possible, nay a probable, harbor- age for the kind of snakes only familiar to ‘me from visits to the Central Park me- nagerie, the London Zoo, and closely ensu- 17 April and Early May ing dreams. ‘The mere thought of vent- uring across such a tract of land made me shrink with terror; yet to-day the chance of discovering some new orchid, or evena less rare plant, would lead me knee-deep into its midst, without even stopping to consider its slimy possibilities. Once the reaction of disappointment should set in, I own that my retreat might be far from stately. But I began by saying that during one season only, with the exception of winter, are the eyes of the botanist fixed above more uniformly than below. This is during the early spring, when pretty nearly the only flowers are borne by the trees and shrubs. Ordinarily, these blos- soms do not seem to be accredited with any existence at all. I have heard peo- ple exclaim with surprise, at the mention of an elm in flower. The city room of a friend of mine looks out upon the spread- ing branches of a maple. Its occupant 18 April and Early May takes great pleasure each spring in watch- ing what she calls ‘‘ the first leaves’’ un- fold themselves; these so-called leaves really being the flowers, very evidently flowers, it would seem, from their brief endurance ; very easily ascertained to be flowers, should a few specimens be gath- ered for inspection from the thickly strewn pavement below. I remember, too, that when I first planned to write a book about wild flowers, an exceed- ingly intelligent man asked me if I purposed including ‘ fruit - blossoms.’’ ‘¢ Fruit-blossoms ?’’ I asked, sincerely puzzled, not apprehending why one kind of blossoms should be thus designated rather than another, the object of the life of flowers in general being fruit. ‘‘ Yes! fruit-blossoms,’’ he repeated im- patiently ; ‘‘surely you know what dey are!’’ ‘Frankly, I don’t,’’ I answered. ‘“‘Why, ¢ree-blossoms, of course ; apples and pears and peaches and cherries! ’’ 19 April and Early May he explained, evidently supposing, in common, I find, with many others, that ‘* tree-blossoms ’’ were chiefly confined to the domesticated fruit-trees. We find some of the shrubs flowering even earlier than the trees. During the winter we noticed that the thickets were hung with the scaly catkins of the al- ders. As spring comes on these catkins swell and soften into tassels of gold and purple ; tassels which are composed of male or staminate flowers, the female or pistillate ones being borne in two or three erect, oblong, cone-like heads. In hollows still filled with ice and snow, the willows are wearing their soft gray furs. If we break off a branch closely set with the silken ‘‘ pussies,’’ as the children call them, and place it in a jar of water in the sunshine, the gray soon turns to gold, and the least touch dislodges a yellow cloud of pollen. A shrub which flowers a little later than the early wil- 20 April and Early May lows is the spice- bush, bearing on its leafless stems close little bunches of pale yellow blossoms which yield an aromatic, faintly penetrating fragrance. The swamp maple has long been noted for the brilliancy with which it lights the borders of the autumn woods, edging the forest with a flame which daily creeps farther and farther into its midst. It is almost equally noteworthy in April, when from its bare branches burst small clusters of scarlet flowers which show viv- idly against the cold blue of the spring skies; and which later, as I remember one year, may fall, like a shower of blood, upon smooth sheets of late snow ; snow which, as it melts, gently uncovers to the sun blue patches of violets. There is a wonderful enchantment about these surprises of the young year. For they are always surprises, never mind how often we have experienced them or how unfailingly we await them. The aroma 21 April and Early May of the first breath of spring, the concen- trated exhalations of the earliest growing things, is fraught with an irresistible in- toxication—the intoxication of youth it- self. The silver maple flowers even earlier than its sister of the swamps and low woods, but its yellow or reddish blos- soms are less conspicuous. ‘The sugar- maples leaf and flower simultaneously ; while the blossoms of the striped and mountain species appear when the trees are in full foliage. With our native elms we find that the blossoms invariably pre- cede the leaves. From the graceful branches of what is perhaps the most beautiful of our trees, the American or white elm, the also yellow or reddish flower-clusters droop from their slender stems in April; while the little, close-set bunches of the slippery, or red, elm may be looked for as early as March. Like their near of kin, the alders, the 22 April and Early May birches have long been hung with the cat- kins which are now developing into tas- sels of yellow flowers; the female flowers, | again, as in the alders, being borne in } short, oblong clusters. A little later we / notice the blossoms of the beech, the male / ones drooping in small heads, the female; ones (which later yield the prickly «< beech nuts’’) usually being paired at the ort af a short stalk. Although most of these blossionadeis trées make little show of brilliancy, relying largely, I suppose, upon the winds for the transfer of their pollen, and thus without inducement to deck themselves as; ‘gayly as would be advisable were they depend- ent upon the visits of insects, the effect of their leafless branches festooned with slender tassels and tiny flower-dlusters_ is wonderfully delicate and feathery. Once appreciated—for these earliest revelations seem strangely ignored, as though there were no visible life until the facts of 23 April and Early May flower_and foliage became conspicuously apparent—their significant beauty is al- ways anticipated with renewed eagerness. If one looks earthward—where these days the pale sunshine lies with the brood- ing tenderness of a bird upon its nest, patiently awaiting the life about to burst into being—he sees a multitude of little green cornucopias that are pricking their way upward with a vast deal of de- termination, undaunted by the matted mass of decaying leaves, failing to be driven back even by the late snowfall. These small objects are so closely ‘‘ done- up ’’ that they suggest young babies out for their first airing. They have the air of aggressive secrecy peculiar to prize-packets —as if challenging one to guess their con- _ tents. And unless our eyes are trained by years of observation, we are indeed quite unable to identify the different plants ; to conjecture that this papery wrapping in- folds the pale leaf and pure blossom of the 24 nf 9} Msi c —— nn 13 April and Early May bloodroot ; that that vindictive looking spear, composed of closely plaited leaves, heralds the yet remote appearance of the unlovely flowers of the false hellebore ; that these slender needles will expand with the feathery foliage and fragile blossoms of the anemone. But from some last year leaves we are enabled to predict that from certain silken coils will peep the blue eyes of the liver- wort. We greet joyfully the familiar ever- green leaves of the trailing arbutus, and when our eager fingers have pushed aside the drifts of dead leaves, we discover a few early, aromatic clusters of its waxen flowers. Not till the shad-bush flings its white <2. clusters across the brook, does the blood- root consent to lay aside its wraps and spangle the ground with its snowy gold- centred blossoms. The purity of this flower is only accentuated by the blood- like drops which ooze from its broken 25 April and Early May flower and foliage became conspicuously apparent—their significant beauty is al- ways anticipated with renewed eagerness. If one looks earthward—where these days the pale sunshine lies with the brood- ing tenderness of a bird upon its nest, patiently awaiting the life about to burst into being—he sees a multitude of little green cornucopias that are pricking their way upward with a vast deal of de- termination, undaunted by the matted mass of decaying leaves, failing to be driven back even by the late snowfall. These small objects are so closely ‘‘ done- up’’ that they suggest young babies out for their first airing. They have the air of aggressive secrecy peculiar to prize-packets —as if challenging one to guess their con- tents. And unless our eyes are trained by years of observation, we are indeed quite unable to identify the different plants; to conjecture that this papery wrapping in- folds the pale leaf and pure blossom of the 24 April and Early May nef 2) bloodroot ; that that vindictive looking ‘“o* ~ spear, composed of closely plaited leaves, heralds the yet remote appearance of the unlovely flowers of the false hellebore ; that these slender needles will expand with the feathery foliage and fragile blossoms of the anemone. But from some last year leaves we are enabled to predict that from certain silken coils will peep the blue eyes of the liver- &3 wort. We greet joyfully the familiar ever-_ green leaves of the trailing arbutus, and at when our eager fingers have pushed aside the drifts of dead leaves, we discover a few early, aromatic clusters of its waxen flowers. Not till the shad-bush flings its white “2.-« clusters across the brook, does the blood- root consent to lay aside its wraps and spangle the ground with its snowy gold- centred blossoms. The purity of this flower is only accentuated by the blood- like drops which ooze from its broken 25 April and Early May stem. A sheltered bank, bright with the young, delicate leaves, and starred with the earlier blossoms of the bloodroot, marks perhaps the loveliest shrine along the path of the ascending year. By the end of April, and often earlier, the wet meadows look as though tracked with gold. Along the stream, in and out of the swamps, gleam the yellow blos- soms of the marsh marigold, a fresh, delightful plant, with tempting leaves, which afford the country people their earliest ‘‘ greens,’’ and little button-like flower-buds, which make an excellent substitute for capers. The little blue flowers of the liverwort are not seen at their best until the plant has discarded its worn-out foliage in fa- vor of a fresh set of leaves. But when this renovation has taken place, they are lovely with all the shy suggestiveness pe- culiar to these early arrivals. In the open woods, among great beds of pale, 26 April and Early May mottled, pointed leaves, are drooping the lily-like bells of the adder’s tongue. Distinctly a rock-loving plant is the ». Dutchman’s breeches, or, more happily named, whitehearts. Sharing some se- cluded shelf with the evergreen fronds of the polypodium, it enchants us with its delicate foliage, and wands of creamy heart-shaped blossoms. Another rock- frequenting plant, as its title indicates, is the early saxifrage, whose firm, flattish clusters of white flowers, borne at or near the summit of leafless stems, though without the fragile charm of their com- panions, please us by their wholesome, hearty aspect, and by the impulsive fashion in which they burst from the most unpromising of crannies. Then, too, the saxifrage has a certain finish of its own, one cluster being sufficient unto itself, while, to be appreciated, so many plants need to be seen in the mass; to say nothing of its readiness to be up- 27 = April and Early May rooted without ‘‘squeaking,’’ and to be carried off without any pretence of swooning by the way. Whoever has struggled with the stubborn tubers of themselves beneath some sharp-edged stone deep in the earth, and has finally conquered its obstinacy only to be foiled by the wilted blossom and drooping leaves, or who has been baffled by the deep-rooted, slender-stemmed tenacity of many other plants, will appreciate the alacrity with which the saxifrage surren- ders itself into your keeping, and the ab- sence of any later indication of home- sickness. Where the woods are richer and less rocky, with haughty confidence the wake-robin lifts its three-petalled, purple- red flower. The name of this plant is hardly appropriate, as the woods, nearly a month ago, were alive with robin love- songs, and by the time it flowers, these 28 April and Early May birds have begun house-building, if not house-keeping. Beyond, the glen is gay with its kinsmen, the lovely white and painted trilliums. Beneath round, wool- ly leaves, close to the ground, hide the dingy, cup-shaped blossoms of the wild ginger. From the grass which borders the lane peep the striped stars of the spring-beauty. i ie * IV June and Early July Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer Into every bare inlet and creek and bay. —LOWELL. IV June and Early July it seems to me that he struck the note of the first summer month more distinctly than our own Bryant, who wrote of ‘‘flowery June.’’ June is, above all things, ‘‘ leafy,’’ seeming chiefly to con- centrate her energies on her foliage; for although she really is not lacking in flow- ers, they are almost swamped in the great green flood which has swept silently but irresistibly across the land. At times one loses sight of them altogether, and fan- 49 ‘June and Early July cies that a sort of reaction has set in after —‘* festival Of breaking bud and scented breath,” that which enchained our senses a few weeks since. But the sight of a clover- field alone suffices to dispel the thought. There is no suggestion of exhaustion in the close, sweet -scented, wholesome heads which © are nodding over whole acres of land. ‘* South winds jostle them, Bumblebees come, Hover, hesitate, Drink and are gone,” sings Emily Dickinson, who elsewhere calls the clover the —‘‘ flower that bees prefer And butterflies desire.” Indeed, although this is not a native blossom, it seems to have taken a special 50 June and Early July hold on the imaginations of our poets. Mr. James Whitcomb Riley asks, —‘‘ what is the lily and all of the rest Of the flowers to a man with a heart in his breast That was dipped brimmin’ full of the honey and dew Of the sweet clover blossoms his babyhood knew?” It is generally acknowledged that our sense of smell is so intimately connected with our powers of memory that odors serve to recall, with peculiar vividness, the particular scenes with which they are associated. Many of us have been startled by some swiftly borne, perhaps unrecognized, fragrance, which, for a brief instant, has forcibly projected us into the past; and I can imagine that a sensitively organized individual — and surely the poet is the outcome of a pe- culiarly sensitive and highly developed organization — might be carried back, 51 June and Early July with the strong scent of the clover field, to the days when its breath was a suffi- cient joy, and its limits barred out all possibility of disaster. If we pluck from the rounded heads one tiny flower and examine it with a magnifying glass we see that it has some- what the butterfly shape of its kinsman, the sweet- pea of the garden. We re- member that as children we followed the bee’s example and sucked from its slender tube the nectar; and we conclude that the combined presence of irregularity of form, nectar, vivid coloring, and fragrance indicate a need of insect visitors for the exchange of pollen and consequent setting of seed, as Nature never expends so much effort without some clear end in view. As an instance of the strange ‘‘ web of complex relations,’’ to quote Darwin, which binds together the various forms of life, I recall a statement, which created some amusement at a meeting of the Eng- 52 June and Early July lish Royal Agricultural Society, to the effect that the growth of pink clover de- pended largely on the proximity of old women. The speaker argued that old women kept cats ; cats killed mice ; mice were prone to destroy the nests of the bumblebees, which alone were fitted, owing to the length of their probosces, to fertilize the blossoms of the clover. Con- sequently, a good supply of clover de- pended on an abundance of old women. The little yellow hop-clover has just begun to make its appearance in the sandy fields and along the roadsides. Although it is very common, and in spite of its general resemblance, both in leaf and flower, to the other clovers, it seems to be recognized but seldom. I have known people to gather it with unction and send it to some distant botanical friend as a rarity. One morning last fall I found a quan- tity of blood-red clover- heads by the 53 June and Early July roadside. As I was gathering a few— never before having seen this species, I was confident—a woman came out from the neighboring farm-house to tell me that her husband had planted his clover-seed, as usual, the previous spring, and had been much amazed at the appearance of this flaming crop. She was eager to know if I could tell her what sort of clover it was that yielded these unusual blossoms. A careful search through my ‘‘ Gray’’ left me quite in the dark. Every plant- lover knows the sense of defeat that comes with the acknowledgment that you can- not place a flower, and will sympathize with the satisfaction which I experienced a few days later when, while reading in one of Mr. Burroughs’s books an account of a country walk in England, I found a description of Z7rifolium incarnatum, a clover common on the other side but al- most unknown here, that exactly tallied 54 June and Early July with the appearance of the recently dis- covered stranger, which by some chance had found its way to the dooryard of the Connecticut farmer. Except for the arrival of the clovers and for the constant reinforcement in the ranks of daisies and buttercups, the ap- pearance of the fields has not altered greatly during the last two weeks. Blue flags still lift their stately heads along the water-courses, and the blossoms of the blue-eyed grass are now so large and abundant that they seem to float like a flood of color on the tops of the long grasses. I do not remember ever to have seen these flowers so vigorous and con- Spicuous as they are this year. In the wet meadows, at least, the blues now pre- dominate, rather than the yellows. Al- most the only yellow flower that is at all abundant among the flags and blue eyes is a day-blooming species of the even- ing primrose, with delicate, four-petalled 55 June and Early July flowers scattered about the upper part of the slender stems. It is Richard Jefferies who finds fault with the artists for the profuseness with which they scattered flowers upon their canvases; but, for myself, I recall no painted meadow more thickly strewn with blossoms than the actual one which stretches before me. It seems to me that the fault to-day lies more in the quality of the painting than in the quantity of the flowers. It is in the face of modern tradition that one wishes to see these indicated with some fidelity and tenderness; yet I cannot but feel that the old Italians— Fra Angelico, for example—caught bet- ter the spirit of the fields of Paradise when he starred them with separate, gemlike flowers, than do our modern men that of our own meadows, which they dash with reckless splashes of color, ex- pecting the leafless, stemless blotches to 56 June and Early July do duty for the most exquisitely tinted and delicately modelled of Nature’s prod- ucts. And I think that one recalls more vividly in the galleries of Florence than in those of Fifty-seventh Street the near effect of the flower-spangled fields which border our Hudson. Bounding one favorite meadow is a row of tall elms, and a winding, shadowy thicket. Here red-winged blackbirds flash in and out: song-sparrows give vent to their inexhaustible joy in life; and the restless brown thrasher catches the sunlight on its tawny coat. Just sucha neighborhood is sure to tempt one away from the frank loveliness of the open fields for the mere possibilities of —I hardly know what. Perhaps some low-built nest with its cluster of biuish-green, or white, brown-flecked eggs, guarded by the anx- ious mother-bird, whose high, terrified notes we fancy we recognize as we ap- proach. Or perhaps one of the rarer or- 57 June and Early July chids is hidden among the rushes be- yond. It is hardly too early to look for the showy lady’s slipper, loveliest of a lovely tribe. For an instant a group of tall stems and veiny leaves mislead us by their like- ness to those of the ladies’ slippers, and we look eagerly for the large white and pur- ple pouch, only to discover the deception when we notice the ugly, greenish flowers of the false hellebore. Weare more like- ly to be successful in our orchid hunt if we are less ambitious—if we are willing to content ourselves with the two oblong shining leaves and the low purplish clus- ters of the twayblade, or with the long, dull spikes of the green orchis. A grassy lane promises to lead to some distant woods. ‘The wild grape flings its graceful festoons overhead. The air is heavy with the sweet-scented breath of its greenish flowers. Against the rail fence viburnums grow tall and thick, 58 June and Early July with toothed, bright green leaves heavily veined on the under side, and flat clusters of white flowers on which are huddled little groups of sleepy fireflies. In and out twist the prickly stems, shining, deco- rative leaves and greenish blossoms of the cat-brier. The carrion-vine, too, sends forth its delicate young shoots, but the foul odor of its dull clustered blossoms, which has attracted all the carrion-liking flies in the neighborhood, drives us hur- riedly from its vicinity. About the trunks and close branches of slim cedars twine the strong stems and rich, glossy leaves of the poison-ivy. If we are wise we tarry here no longer than by the carrion-vine, for the small white flowers, which are now fully open, are said to give forth peculiarly poisonous emanations under the influence of the June sun. In the woods the maple-like leaves and white flowers of the laurestinus, or ma- 59 June and Early July ple-leaved viburnum, are noticeable. In places the ground is white with the pretty dwarf cornel or bunch-berry. Each low’. stem is crowned with four large white, or pink-tipped, petal-like leaves, which sur- round a cluster of tiny greenish flowers; from four to six oblong, pointed, green leaves are crowded in a circle below. This is the small sister of the well-known dogwood which so lately seemed to link June with January. The shrubby dogwoods, some of which are still blossoming along the roadsides, bear a superficial resemblance to the vi- burnums; but their tiny flowers are mi- nutely four-toothed, while those of the viburnums are five-lobed. Among fall- en, moss-grown trunks we find the clover- like leaflets (resembling those of the com- mon yellow wood-sorrel) and the white, pink-veined flowers of the wood-sorrel. Along the sheltered roadside, as well as in the woods, the delicate white bells of 60 June and Early July the pyrola droop from their slender stem in a fashion which suggests the lily-of- the-valley. ‘The long, curved pistil which protrudes from each flower easily distin- guishes this plant from the pipsissewa, which can also be recognized by its glossy, evergreen, occasionally white- veined leaves, and by its fragrant waxen flowers with violet-colored anthers. Although the pyrola and pipsissewa are sometimes found growing together, the former-usually requires arather moist, rich soil, while the latter flourishes best in sandy places among decaying leaves. The pyrola is the first of the two to blos- som, and its flowers can soon be found in great abundance, while those of the pip- sissewa are hardly in their prime till July. With their disappearance I feel as if — the curtain had been rung down upon the host of shy, lovely wood flowers of the early year. ‘The later arrivals, in spite of their usual beauty and vigor, lack the 61 June and Early July timid grace which we rarely miss in the earlier ones. On the rocky hillsides the glory of the mountain - laurel is at its height. The wood openings reveal what look like drifts of snow—the snow of the Alps by dawn or early twilight—for in sunny places the flowers of this laurel are pure rose-color, although in the deeper woods they are white. The thick, glossy leaves form an effective background to the dense clusters of wholesome - looking flowers. Perhaps the firm, fluted, pink- tinged buds are even prettier than the blossoms. Pick a freshly opened cluster and observe that each of the ten little bags of pollen is caught in a separate de- pression of the wheel-shaped corolla. Brush the flower, lightly but quickly, with your finger or a twig, and you see that the bags are dislodged by the jar with such force that your finger is thickly dusted with pollen, and you understand how the 62 June and Early July visiting bee unconsciously transmits the precious grains from flower to flower. Strictly speaking, the waxy flowers of the rhododendron are more beautiful than those of the laurel, but in our latitude the rhododendron is not only far less abundant, but also far less luxuriant in growthand foliage. Thoreau is tireless in his admiration of the ‘‘small, ten-sided, rosy -crimson basins’’ of the sheep - lau- rel, or lamb-kill, a low shrub with pale green, narrowly oblong leaves, and flowers which resemble, except in size and color, those of the mountain laurel, in whose immediate neighborhood they are found. Not far from the laurels we find the In- dian cucumber-root, with small, yellow- ish flowers drooping from slender, wool- clad stems, above a circle of oblong pointed leaves. This delicate little plant is less effective now than in September, when its clustered purple berries and brill- iantly painted leaves are sure to detain | é June and Early July the eye. Its tuberous root, with a strong flavor of the cucumber, was very proba- bly used as food by the Indians. Even in midwinter we can go to the woods, and, brushing away the snow from about the roots of some old tree, find the shining white-veined leaves and coral - like berries of the partridge - vine. But this is the season when we should make a special pilgrimage to some dim retreat which is pervaded with the fra- grance of its lovely white and pinkish twin-blossoms. So frequent and enchanting are the revelations which await us these days that, to the man or woman with unbur- dened mind and enlightened vision, a country ramble is one of the most perfect of pleasures. Then there are days when the odor-laden winds seem to have some narcotic power, lulling to inertia all energy and ambition; days when the drowsily witnessed voyage of a butterfly, 4 4, June and Early July or the half-heard song of a wood-thrush, or even the dreamy consciousness of the rhythmical development of life about us —the measured succession of bud, flower, and fruit—seems a sufficient end in itself. It is easier to resist this influence if we keep to the road. Once we are led away by some winding pretence of a path, each leafy curve of which is more entic- ing than the last, we are apt to yield ourselves to the simple charm of being. But on the road we are more practical, more self-conscious. We only cease en- tirely to be self-conscious when there is no chance of human interruption. On the road a farm-wagon may overtake us at any moment, and we feel that, to the bovine mind, even the foolish occupation of pick-. ing flowers seems more intelligent than the abandonment of one’s self to joy in the blue of the sky or the breath of summer. Flat rosettes of purple- veined leaves and tall clusters of dandelion-like flower- 65 June and Early July heads abound by the dusty highway. The striped leaves suggested the markings of the rattlesnake to some imaginative mind: and so the plant has been dubbed ‘‘rattlesnake weed,’’ and the supersti- tious have used it as the cure for the bites of the rattlesnake. Narrow leaves and pretty, spotted flowers on hair-like stalks grow in many circles about the slender stems of the yellow loosestrife. The blackberry vines are less white than they were ten days ago, and hard, green berries are replacing the flowers. The slender, light blue clusters of the larger skull-cap are beginning to be noticeable. Through the grasses glistens the wet scar- let of wild strawberries. In the thicket are shrubs, whose green buds are still too firmly closed for us to guess their names, unless we chance to recognize their leaves. There is always Something to look forward to—something to come back for—even along the roadside. 66 Or else perhaps I sought some meadow low, Where deep-fringed orchids reared their feathery spires, Where lilies nodded by the river slow, And milkweeds burned their red and orange fires ; Where bright-winged blackbirds flashed like living coals, And reed-birds fluted from the swaying grass ; There shared I in the laden bee’s delight, Quivered to see the dark cloud-shadows pass Beyond me; loved and yearned to know the sou!s Of bird and bee and flower—of day and night. — ” V Midsummer 3T is interesting to observe the 243 manner in which the flowers 33) express the dominant mood of the season. ‘The early ones, as has been noticed already, are chilly- looking, shy, tentative ; charming with the shrinking, uncertain charm of an Ameri- can spring. ‘Those of the later year are distinctly hardy, braced to meet cold winds and nipping nights. While those of midsummer—those which are abroad now—have caught the hot look of flame, or of the sun itself, or—at times—the deep blue of the sky. Of course there are exceptions to this 69 Midsummer? — rule, as we shall note later ; but the least observing must admit the intensity of the colors which now prevail, colors which ° are not perhaps more brilliant than the later ones, but which, it seems to me, are far more suggestive of summer. It may be argued that this is merely a matter of association ; that if the golden-rods and asters were in the habit of flowering in July, and if the lilies and milkweeds or- dinarily postponed their appearance till September, the former would seem to us the ones which embodied most vividly the idea of heat and sunlight, while the latter would typify, in a perfectly satis- factory fashion, the colder season. I am ready to acknowledge that we are victimized sometimes by our sensitiveness to association ; recalling clearly a certain childish conviction that one could rec- ognize Sunday by the peculiarly golden look of its sunlight, and by the long, mysterious slant of its shadows in the or- 7° Mdisummer chard. This delusion—though even yet it hardly seems that—sprang, I suppose, partly from the fact that only on Sun- day was one obliged to refrain from a variety of enchanting pursuits which at other times proved so absorbing as to preclude any great sensitiveness to the aspects of nature, and partly also from a certain serenity in the moral atmosphere which so linked itself with the visible surroundings as to arouse the belief that the lights and shadows of this one day actually differed in character from those of the other six. Still I cannot but think that not only is the coarseness of habit common to the later flowers suggestive of a defensive attitude in view of a more or less inclement season, but that their ac- tual colors are less indicative of the heat of summer. Surely no autumn field sends upward a multiple reflection of the sun itself as do these meadows about us. One would 7% Midsummer suppose that the yellow rays of the om- nipresent black-eyed Susan would droop beneath the fierce ones which beat upon them from above. Instead, they seem to welcome the touch of a kinsman and to gain vigor from the contact. One in- stantly recognizes these flowers as mem- bers of the great Composite family, a tribe which is beginning to take almost undisputed possession of many of our fields ; that is, in relation to the floral world, for the farmers are waging con- stant war upon it. ‘They are cousins of the dandelions and daisies, of the golden- rod and asters. The family name indicates that each flower-head is composed of a number of small flowers which are clustered so close- ly as to give the effect of a single blos- som. In the black-eyed Susan the brown centre, the ‘‘ black eye’’ itself, consists of a quantity of tubular - shaped blossoms, which are crowded upon a somewhat 72 Midsummer cone-shaped receptacle, hence the com- mon name of ‘‘ cone-flower.’’ In _ botan- ical parlance, these are called ‘‘ disk flow- ers.’’ They possess both stamens and pistils, while the yellow rays, which com- monly are regarded as petals, are in reality flowers which are without either of these important organs ; only assisting in the perpetuation of the species by ar- resting the attention of passing insects and thus securing an exchange of pollen among the perfect disk-flowers. In the common daisy the arrangement is different. Here the white rays are even more useful than ornamental, as they are the female flowers of the head, eventually producing seed ; while the yellow disk- flowers of the centre yield the pollen. The dandelion is without any tubular blossoms. Its florets are botanically de- scribed as ‘‘strap-shaped,’’ resembling the ray-flowers of the daisy and black- eyed Susan. In the common thistle, 73 Midsummer again, we find only tubular flowers. If the minute blossoms of the Composite family were not thus grouped, probably they would be too inconspicuous to at- tract attention and often might fail to se- cure the pollen necessary to their fertili- zation. To quote Mr. Grant Allen, ‘Union is strength for the daisy as for the State.’ More people would learn to take an interest in plants if they suspected the pleasurable excitement which awaits the flower-lover upon the most commonplace railway journey. A peculiar thrill of ex- pectancy is caused by the rapidly chang- ing environment which reveals, in swift succession, flowers of the most varied proclivities. If we leave New York ona certain road, at intervals for an hour or more the salt marshes spread their deep- hued treasures before us. Then we turn into the interior, passing through farm- lands where the plants which follow in 74 Midsummer the wake of civilization line our way. Suddenly we leave these behind. Dart- ing into the deep forest we catch glimpses of the shyer woodland beauties. Now and then we span a foaming river, on whose steep shores we may detect, with the eagerness of a sportsman, some long- sought rarity. It is always a fresh surprise and dis- appointment to me to find that I can seldom reach on foot such wild and promising spots as the railway window reveals. Is it possible that the swiftly vanishing scene has been illuminated by the imagination which has been allowed the freer play from the improbability of any necessity for future readjustment ?. However that may be, I find that my book possesses but little charm till an aching head warns me to refrain from too constant a vigil. Just now, from such a coigne of van- tage, when the unclouded sun beats upon 75 Midsummer their surfaces, certain pastures -look as though afire. The grasses sway about great patches of intense orange-red, sug- gestive of creeping flames. ‘This startling effect is given by the butterfly-weed, the most gorgeous member of the milkweed family. Almost equally vivid, though less flame-like, is the purple milkweed, a species which abounds also in dry places, with deep pink-purple flowers which grow in smaller, less spreading clusters than those of the butterfly-weed. The swamp milk- weed may be found in nearly all wet meadows. It is described by Gray as ‘‘rose-purple,’’ but the finer specimens might almost claim to be ranked among the red flowers. The dull pink balls of the common milkweed or silkweed are massed by ey- ery roadside now, and are too generally known to need description: The most delicate member of the family is the four- leaved milkweed, with fragrant pale pink 76 Midsummer biossoms which appear in June on the wooded hillsides. Although there are eighteen distinct species of milkweed proper, perhaps the above are the only ones which are commonly encountered. Few plant-families add more to the beau- ty of the summer fields. But although its different representatives are deemed worthy of careful cultivation in other countries—the well-known swallow-worts of English gardens being milkweeds—I doubt if the average American knows even the commoner species by sight, so careless have we been of our native flowers. July yields no plant which is more per- fect in both flower and foliage than the meadow lily. It is a genuine delight to wade knee-deep into some meadow among the myriad erect stems, which are sur- rounded by symmetrical circles of lance- shaped leaves and crowned with long- stemmed, nodding, recurved lilies; lilies so bell-like and tremulous that such a 77 “Midsummer meadow always suggests to me possibilities of tinkling music too ethereal for mortal ears. Usually these flowers are yellow, thickly spotted with brown, but this year I find them of the deepest shade of orange. Within the flower-cup the stamens are heavily loaded with brown pollen. When with rhythmical sweep of his long scythe the mower lays low whole acres of lilies and clover, miulkweeds, daisies, and buttercups, there is a ten- dency to bewail such a massacre of the flowers. But, after all, this is no purpose- less destruction. As the dead blossoms lie heaped one upon another in the blaz- ing sunlight, their sweetness is scattered abroad with every breath of wind. As we rest among the fragrant mounds we are still subject to their pervading influence. They ‘‘ were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided.”’ But it is not the sentimentalist only 78 Midsummer who begrudges every flower that is picked without purpose, to be thrown aside, a repulsive, disfigured object, a few mo- ments later. Certainly it seems unintel- ligent, if not wasteful and irreverent, to be possessed with an irresistible desire wantonly to destroy an exquisite organ- ism. Yet so frequent is this form of un- intelligence that when the companioned flower-lover discovers a group of what he fears might be considered tempting blos- soms, his instinct is to pounce upon them with outstretched arms and protect them from an almost certain onslaught. -Thoreau says somewhere that life should be lived ‘‘ as tenderly and daintily as one would pluck a flower,’’ so it is possible that in the neighborhood of Walden the ruthless flower-gatherers were in the mi- nority, for one would regret to see a life lived as roughly and without semblance of daintiness as one see, in less fortunate lo- calities, flowers plucked by the dozen. 79 Midsummer In the woods and along the thicket- bordered fields the vivid cups of the wood lily gleam from clusters of dull bracken or from feathery, gold - tinged fern-beds. These had never seemed to me so almost blood-like in color as when I caught con- stant glimpses of them from the train a few days ago. As it had been raining heavily, I thought that the unusual in- tensity of their hue might be due to a re- cent bath. But in my wanderings since then I have encountered equally brilliant specimens, and again conclude that the flowers of this year are unusually deep- hued and vigorous. The Turk’s cap lily, the well-named Lilium superbum of the botanies, is near- ly always so imposing —with its stout stem, that, at its best, would overtop a giant, and with its radiant, recurved flow- ers, thirty or forty of which are some- times found on one plant—that it is al- most sure to surprise us anew whenever So Midsummer we rediscover it. It is found in rich, low ground, reaching great perfection in some of the swampy places near the Con- necticut shore of Long Island Sound. It resembles somewhat the tiger - lily, which was brought to us from Asia, and which has escaped in hosts to the road- side and marks the site of many a de- serted homestead. However much we may revel in rich color, it is restful, after a time, to turn from these blazing children of the sun to the green water-courses which are marked by the white, pyramidal clusters and graceful foliage of the tall meadow-rue. On certain of these plants the flowers are exquisitely delicate and feathery, while on others they are comparatively coarse and dull. A closer inspection reveals that the former are the male, the latter the female flowers. This distinction between the sexes, how- ever, is less marked in the world of flow- 81 Midsummer ers than in that of birds. During the past week I have watched the comings and goings of a scarlet tanager, which had built his nest in the fork of a pine- tree within easy view of my window, and have had ample opportunity to contrast the tropical brilliancy of his plumage with the dull greenish dress of his mate, a contrast greater than any I have noticed among similarly related flowers. Almost as refreshing as the masses of meadow-rue are the thickets composed of the deep green leaves and white, spread- ing flowers of the elder. Another beau- tiful shrub, which is now blossoming in marshy places, especially near the coast, is the fragrant white swamp honeysuckle. Only among the sandhills of the coast itself do we meet with the purplish blos- soms of the beach-pea. Nearly akin to it is the blue vetch, whose long, dense, one-sided clusters of small pea-like flow- 82 Midsummer ers make little lakes of pinkish blue in wet meadows farther inland. Although still unsuccessful in my search for the home of the showy lady’s slipper, the appearance of whose leaf and stem the false hellebore simulated so success- fully a month ago, I have at last seen, by a fortunate chance, this rarely beautiful flower. A country boy, whose identity as yet I have been unable to discover, left at my door a bunch of the great beauties, and I have revelled in their full, shell- like, pink-striped lips, their white, spread- ing petals and their delicious fragrance. <¢ Peat-bogs, Maine to North Carolina, July,’’ hardly indicates the many hours which, if one experience goes for any- thing, must be spent in their quest. Less difficult of attainment is the grass- pink, or Calopfogon. This is the only orchid, I believe, which carries its lip on the upper instead of on the lower side of the flower, a contrast to the usual arrange- 83 Midsummer ment which is owing to the non-twisting of the ovary. The deep pink flowers, with their spreading white, yellow, and pink-bearded lips, are clustered near the summit of astem which is about a foot high. The single leaf is long and narrow. In the same bog which yields the grass- pinks in abundance, I find also the love- ly rose-colored, violet-scented adder’s mouth, the long, uninteresting spikes of the green orchis, and the white fragrant wands of the northern white orchis. From now till August a careful search of any wet meadow may discover the closely spiked, sweet - scented flowers of another not infrequent member of the family, the smaller of the purple-fringed orchises. In the dry woods we encounter con- stantly a shrubby plant with rounded clusters of small white flowers. This is the New Jersey tea, or red-root; the former name arising from the use made of its leaves during the Revolution, the 84 Midsummer latter from its dark red root. The driest and most uninviting localities do not seem to discourage either this persistent little shrub or the bushy-looking wild indigo, with its clover-like leaves and short ter- minal clusters of yellow, pea-like blossoms. In shaded hollows and on the hillsides the tall white wands of the black cohosh, or bugbane, shoot upward, rocket-like. The great stout stems, large divided leaves and slender spikes of feathery flowers render this the most conspicuous wood plant of the season. If we chance to be lingering ‘*In secret paths that thread the forest land” when the last sunlight has died away, and happen suddenly upon one of these ghostly groups, the effect is almost star- tlng. The rank odor of the flowers de- tracts somewhat from one’s enjoyment of their beauty, and is responsible, I sup- pose, for their unpleasing title of bugbane. 85 Midsummer Under the pine-trees are the glossy leaves and nodding bells of the winter- green ; while here and there spring grace- ful, wax-like clusters of parasitic Indian pipe, the fresh blossoms nodding from leafless, fleshy stalks, the older ones erecting themselves preparatory to fruit- ing. When we pick these odd-looking flowers they turn black from our touch, adding their protest to the cry against the despoiler, and invalidating their claim to the title which they sometimes bear of ‘* corpse-plant.”’ From some deep shadow gleam the coral-like berries of the early elder, or the bright, rigid clusters of the bane- berry. On the low bush - honeysuckle the deeper-colored yellow blossoms an- nounce to the insect world that they have no attractions to offer in the way of pollen or honey, their fertilization be- ing achieved already. But at present the woods are not alto- 86 Midsummer gether satisfactory hunting grounds. The more interesting flowers have sought the combined light and moisture of the open bogs or the sunshine of the fields and roadsides. Along the latter are quanti- ties of bladder-campion, a European mem- ber of the Pink family which has estab- lished itself in Eastern New England. It can be recognized at once by its much- inflated calyx and by its deeply parted white petals. A few days since I found the wayside whitened with the large flowers of the lovely summer anemone, each one springing from between two closely set, deeply cut leaves, in the dis- tance suggesting white wild geraniums. A near kinsman, the thimble - weed, is apt to be confused with the summer ane- mone when it is found bearing white in- stead of greenish flowers. This curious- looking plant is noticeable now in shaded spots, growing to a height of two or three feet, and sending up gaunt flower-stalks 87 Midsummer which are finally crowned with a large, oblong, thimble-like head of fruit. Banked in hollows of the hillside are tall, nodding wands of willow - herb or fire-weed, with delicate flowers of intense purple- pink. Each blossom contains both stamens and pistil, but these mature at different times, and so-called ‘ self- fertilization ’’ is prevented. The pollen is discharged from the stamens while the immature pistil is still bent backward, with its stigmas so closed as to render it impossible for them to receive upon their surfaces a single quickening grain. Later it erects itself, spreading its four stigmas, which now secure easily any pollen which may have been brushed upon the body of the visiting bee. These flowers are so large and are visited so constantly by bees that any one who chances upon the plant can witness speedily the whole al formance. Here are raspberry bushes covered 88 Midsummer thickly with fruit, so thickly that one could live for days on the rocky hillside without other food than this most subtly flavored of all berries. Overhead its pur- ple-flowered sister betrays its kinship with the now abundant wild rose, whose deli- cate beauty it fails utterly to rival. In the low thicket are tiny, rose-veined bells of dogbane, and beyond, the bright if somewhat ragged, yellow flowers and dot- ted leaves of the irrepressible St. John’s- wort jut up everywhere. The umbrella-like clusters of the water hemlock fill the moist ditches and suggest the wild carrot of the later year ; close by the coarse stems and flat, yellow tops of its relative, the meadow parsnip, crowd one upon another. Farther on are soft plumes of the later yellow loosestrife, with little flowers similar to those of the four-leaved loosestrife, which is now on the wane. One looks down upon a wood from 89 Midsummer whose edges gleam silvery birches, whose tops are soft with the tassels of the chest- nut. Below it slopes a meadow turned yellow with the pale flowers of the wild radish. Above it surges a field of grain which grows dark and cool with the shadow of a scurrying cloud. If one were nearer he would see among the wheat the bright pink- purple petals and green ruff-like calyx of the corn cockle. The year is at its height. The bosom of the earth is soft and restful as that of a mother. One abides in its perfect pres- ent, looking neither behind nor before. With the ever-recurring scent of new- mown hay comes another odor, aromatic, permeating. From our feet slopes ‘*¢_a bank where the wild thyme grows.” Only in this one spot have I ever met with this classic little plant, with its close purple flowers and tiny rigid leaves. gO Midsummer When I first discovered it, one superb rain-washed afternoon, the line “From dewy pastures, uplands sweet with thyme,” from Mr. Watson’s poem on Wordsworth, flashed into my mind, and for the hun- dredth time I appreciated the humor of Mr. Oscar Wilde’s assertion to the effect that the chief use of Nature is to illus- trate quotations from the poets. gt Vi Early August i] - It seems as if the day was not whol which we have given heed to some natur breath 4 VI Early August F some one should ask me to show him the place of all ) others which would reveal the largest number of striking flowers peculiar to the season, I should like to guide him to a certain salt-marsh —a salt-marsh which is cut up here and there by little inlets, where the water runs up at high tide and laps its way far inland, and which is dotted by occasion- al islands of higher, drier land that are covered with tall trees. In the distance the marsh only looks refreshingly green, but if we draw near- er we see patches of vivid coloring for 95 Early August which the bright grass of the salt-mead- ows fails to account. If we enter it by way of the sand-hills on the beach, we almost hesitate to step upon the dainty carpet which lies before us. Hundreds of sea-pinks, or Sadéatia, gleam like rosy stars above the grasses. Yet the prodigal fashion in which this plant lavishes its rich color upon the meadows does not constitute its sole or even its chief claim upon our enthusiasm, for it is as perfect in detail as it is beautiful in the mass. The five-parted corolla is of the purest pink, with clear markings of red.and yel- low at its centre. As in the willow-herb or fireweed, the stamens and pistils ma- ture at different times and self-fertiliza- tion is avoided. One peculiarly large and beautiful spe- cies is Sabbatia chlorides. ‘This is found bordering brackish pends along the coast. I have never been so fortunate as to see it growing, but specimens have been sent 96 Early August me from Cape Cod. A less conspicuous kind abounds in the rich soil of the in- terior. Another abundant plant which is sure to excite our interest is the sea-lavender. Its small lavender -colored flowers are spiked along one side of the leafless, branching stems, giving a misty effect which makes its other common name of marsh rosemary seem peculiarly appropri- ate, when we know that the title is de- rived from the Latin for ‘‘ sea-spray.’’ Here, too, we find the mock bishop- weed, one of the most delicate of the Parsleys, with thread-like leaves and tiny white flowers growing in bracted clusters, the shape of which might suggest to the imaginative a bishop’s cap. Through this veil of flower and foliage we spy the pinkish stems, opposite, clasping leaves and small flesh-colored blossoms of the marsh St. John’s-wort, an attractive plant whose chief charm, perhaps, lies in its 97 Early August foliage and coloring, as its flowers, al- though pretty, are rather small and in- conspicuous. Parts of the meadow are bright with the oblong, clover-like heads of the milk- wort. ‘These seem to deepen in color from day to day till finally they look al- most red. ‘They are closely related to the lovely fringed polygala of the June woods, and to the little moss-like species with narrow leaves growing in circles about its stem, and thick flower-heads of pur- plish-pink, which can be found along the inner borders of this same marsh. There is a hollow in the meadow which is always too wet to be explored comfort- ably without rubber boots, and which be- comes at high tide a salt-water pond. Its edges are guarded by ranks of tall swamp mallows, whose great rose-colored flowers flutter like banners in the breeze. Close by are thickets turned pinkish-purple by the dense flower - clusters of the largest 98 Early August and most showy of the tick - trefoils, a group of plants which are now in full bloom, and which can be recognized by their three-divided leaves, pink or purple pea-like flowers, and by the flat, rough- ened pods, which adhere to our clothes with regrettable pertinacity. The botany as- signs this species to rich woods, but I have never seen it more abundant than here. Only by pushing our way through a miniature-forest composed of the purple- streaked stems, divided leaves, and white flowers of another Parsley, the water-hem- lock, do we reach the stretch of land which glories in the treasure which makes this especial marsh more brilliant and un- usual than the many others which skirt the coast. ‘This treasure is the yellow-fringed orchis, a plant which rears its full orange- colored domes on every side, making a mass of burning color in the morning sunlight. I have never found an orchid growing 99 Early August in such abundance elsewhere, and cannot but hope that the meadow will guard its secret, lest some wholesale despoiler should contrive to rob it permanently of its greatest beauty. Certain orchids which were abundant formerly in parts of Eng- land can no longer be found in that country, owing to the reckless fashion in which the plants, for various purposes, were uprooted and carried off. It is well, too, to remember that plucking all of its flowers is equivalent to uprooting the plant in the case of annuals and biennials, as the future life of the species depends upon the seeds which the flowers set. In clefts of the rocks which skirt the in- let the bright scarlet petals of the pimper- nel, the ‘‘ poor man’s weather-glass’’ of the English, open in the sunlight and close at the approach of a storm. The sandy bog beyond is yellow with the fragrant helmet-like flowers of the horned bladderwort. 100 Early August Where the ground grows less yield- ing, along the borders of the tree-covered island, are bright patches of meadow- beauty, or Mhexia, a delicate, pretty flower, with four large rounded petals of deep purple-pink, and with pistil and sta- mens which protrude noticeably. Under the trees the only conspicuous plant is the false foxglove, with tall branches covered with large, showy, yellow flowers, the shape of which recalls the beautiful purple foxglove of English lanes. In the swamps farther inland the close white heads of the button - bush yield a jasmine - like fragrance. From grassy hummocks nod the violet-purple blossoms of the monkey-flower. The path of the slow stream is defined by the bright arrow-shaped leaves and spotless gold- centred flowers of the arrow - head. About the upper part of their stems are clustered the male blossoms, their three snowy petals surrounding the yellow sta- IOI Early August mens, the rather ugly female flowers with their dull green centres occupying a less conspicuous position below. ‘This is on- ly in some cases, however; at times the staminate and pistillate blossoms are’ found on separate plants. The edges of the pond are blue with the long, close spikes of the pickerel - weed. Over the thickets on its shore the clematis has flung a veil of feathery white. A tan- gle of golden threads with little bunched white flowers show that the dodder is at its old game of living on its more self-re- liant neighbors. From erect, finger-like clusters comes the sweet, spicy breath of the Clethra. Where the white dust of the road pow- ders the wayside plants rise the coarse stalks of the evening primrose. These are hung with faded-looking flowers whose unsuspectedly fragrant petals gleamed through the moonlit darkness of last night. Among them we find a fragile, Io2 Early August canary-yellow blossom which has been unable to close because the pink night- moth, which is the plant’s regular visitor, is sO Overcome with sleep, or so drunk, perhaps, with nectar, that it is quite ob- livious of the growing day and of its host’s custom of closing its doors with sunrise. We are so unused to seeing these gay creatures that we feel a little as if we had surprised some ballroom beauty fast asleep on the scene of her midnight triumphs. The slender spikes of the tall purple vervain have a somewhat jagged appear- ance, owing to the reluctance of its little deep-hued flowers to open simultaneously. The mullein is not without this same pe- culiarity. Its sleepy -looking blossoms open one by one, giving the dense spike an unfinished, sluggish aspect. In fact, I think it is the most ‘‘logy’’ looking plant we have. Although it came to us originally from England, it is now com- 103 Early August paratively rare in that country. Mr. Burroughs quotes a London correspon- dent, who says that when one comes up in solitary glory its appearance is herald- ed much as if it were a comet, the de- velopment of its woolly leaves and the growth of its spike being watched and re- ported upon day by day. The broad, butterfly-shaped flowers of the moth-mullein, another emigrant, are much more pleasing than those of its kins- man. Their corollas are sometimes white, sometimes yellow, with a dash of red or purple at the centre. Their stamens are loaded with orange-colored pollen and bearded with tufts of violet wool, which we fancy shields some hidden nectar, as their whole appearance suggests that they aim to attract insect visitors. Despite the aversion with which it is regarded by the farmers, and the careless- ness with which it is overlooked by those who value only the unusual, the wild car- 104 oF < . tes Early August rot is one of the most beautiful of our naturalized plants. ‘There is a delicacy and symmetry in the feathery clusters sug- gestive of cobwebs, of magnified snow- flakes, of the finest of laces (one of its common names is Queen Anne’s lace), of the daintiest creations in the worlds of both art and nature. Perhaps the most omnipresent flower just now is the yarrow. Its finely dissected leaves and close white clusters border every roadside. Indeed, when passing through New York a short time ago it showed its familiar face in a Fifth Avenue door-yard. Despite what seems to me an obvious un- likeness, it is confused frequently with the wild carrot. Five minutes’ study of the two plants with a common magnifying glass will fix firmly in the mind the difference be- tween them. It requires little botanical knowledge to recognize at once that the wild carrot isa member of the umbellifer- ous Parsley family. But the small heads 105 Early August of the yarrow so perfectly simulate sepa- rate flowers that this plant is less readily identified as a Composite. Huddled in hollows by the roadside are the tall stout stalks, clasping woolly leaves, and great yellow disks of the elecampane, another Composite. Still another, which is never found far from the highway, is the chicory, the charm of whose sky-blue flowers is somewhat decreased by the be- draggled appearance of the rest of the plant. Every true-born American ought to recognize the opposite, widely spreading leaves, and dull, whitish flower-clusters of the boneset, a plant which cured, or which was supposed to cure, so many of the ailments of our forefathers. Even to- day the country children eye it ruefully as it hangs in long dried bunches in the attic, waiting to be brewed at the slightest warn- ing into a singularly nauseating draught. Nearly related to the boneset proper 106 oe ae Early August is the Joe-Pye-weed, with tall stout stems surrounded by circles of rough oblong leaves, and with intensely purple-pink flowers, which are massing themselves effectively in the low meadows. In parts of the country no plant does more for the beauty of the landscape of late summer. It is said to have taken its name from an Indian medicine-man, who found it a cure for typhus fever. The European bellflower has become naturalized in New England, and the roadsides now are bright with its graceful lilac-blue spires. Another brilliant emi- grant which is blossoming at present is. the purple loosestrife. The botany ex- tends its range from Nova Scotia to Dela- ware, but I find its myriad deep-hued wands only on the swampy shores of the Hudson, and in the marshes which have for their background the level outline of the Shawangunk Mountains. Along shaded streams the jewel-weeds 107 Early August hang their spurred, delicate pockets ; these are sometimes pale yellow, again deep orange, spotted with reddish-brown. In certain swampy woods and open marshes we at last discover the feathery pink- purple spikes of the smaller fringed orchis. Summer seems well advanced when the curved leafy stems of the Solomon’s seal and twisted-stalk are hung, the first with blackish, the second with bright red ber- ries. Except in the open fields fruits now are more conspicuous than flowers. Of the latter, in the woods, we note chiefly the pink blossoms strung upon the long leafless stalks of the tick-trefoil; also a somewhat similar-looking plant, the lop- seed, whose small pink flowers are not pealike, however, and whose leaves are not divided, as are those of the trefoils. The inconspicuous, two-petalled blossoms and thin opposite leaves of the uninter- esting enchanter’s nightshade are abun- dant everywhere. 108 De ee a a Early August On the hillside the velvety crimson plumes of the staghorn sumach toss up- ward in the pride of fruition. Here the soft cushion of the pasture thistle yields a pleasant fragrance, and violet patches are made in the grass by the incomplete heads of the self-heal. Against the dark oval. leaves of the cockspur-thorn le red- cheeked, apple-like fruit. Currant-like clusters of choke-cherries hang from the thicket. The birds are twittering with joy at the feast which the _ black-cap bushes are yielding, and a song-sparrow flies to the top of a red-osier dogwood, which is heavy with its burden of white berries, and gives vent to a few bubbling notes with an ecstatic energy which threatens almost to burst its little body. 109 VII Late August and Early September Along the roadside, like the flowers of gold That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought, Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod, And the red pennons of the cardinal-flower Hang motionless upon their upright staves. —WHITTIER. VII Late August and Early September YN an interesting article on ** American Wild Flowers ’”’ nightly Review some two years ago, the English naturalist, Mr. Alfred Wallace, commented upon the fact, or what seemed to him the fact, that no- where in our country could be seen any such brilliant masses of flowers as are yearly displayed by the moors and mead- ows of Great Britain. I have not the article with me and do not recall certainly whether Mr. Wallace saw our fields and hillsides in their Sep- 113 Late August and Early September tember dress, but I do remember that he dwelt chiefly upon our earlier flowers, and while, of course, he alluded to the many species of golden-rods and asters to be found in the United States, it seems to me quite impossible that he could have seen our country at this season and yet have remained unconvinced of the unusual brilliancy of its flora. Despite the beauty of our woods and meadows when starred with the white of bloodroot and anemone, and with the deep red of the wake-robin, they are per- haps less radiant than those of England ‘¢in primrose-time.’’ And although our summer landscape glows with deep-hued lilies and milkweeds, and glitters with black-eyed Susans, yet in actual brillian- cy it must yield the palm to an English field of scarlet poppies. But when Sep- tember lines the roadsides of New England with the purple of the aster, and flings its mantle of golden-rod over her hills, 114 Late August and Early September and fills her hollows with the pink drifts of the Joe-Pye-weed, or with the intense red-purple of the iron-weed, and guards her brooks with tall ranks of yellow sun- flowers, then, I think, that any moor or meadow of Great Britain might be set in her midst and yet fail to pale her glory. Of the hundred or so classified species of golden-rod, about eighty belong to the United States. Of these some forty can be found in our Northeastern States. The scientific name of the genus, Sod- dago, signifying ‘‘ to make whole,’’ refers to the faith which formerly prevailed in its healing powers. It belongs to the Composite family, which now predomi- nates so generally. Its small heads are composed of both ray- and disk- flowers, which are of the same golden hue, except in one species. ‘These flower-heads are usually clustered in one-sided racemes, which spring from the upper part of a . leafy stem. 115 Late August and Early September One of the commonest species, and one of the earliest to blossom, is the rough golden-rod, a plant with hairy stem, thick, rough, oblong leaves, and small heads, each one of which is made up of from seven to nine ray-flowers and from — four to seven disk-flowers. Occasionally it will be found growing to a height of five or six feet, but ordinarily it is one of the lowest of the genus. The elm-leaved species is a somewhat similar-looking plant, with thinner, larger leaves, a smooth stem, and with only about four ray-flowers to each little head. The so- .called Canadian golden-rod, with its tall, stout stem, pointed, sharply toothed leaves and short ray-flowers is one of the com- monest varieties. The lance-leaved species is seldom rec- ognized as a member of the tribe because of its flat-topped clusters, which form a striking contrast to the slender, wand-like racemes which usually characterize the 116 Late August and Early September genus. It is often mistaken for the tan- sy, which is also a yellow Composite, but which is quite dissimilar in detail, having deeply divided leaves, the segments of which are cut and toothed, and sometimes much crisped or curled, and button-like, deep-hued flower-heads, which appear to be devoid of ray-flowers. Strictly speak- ing, the tansy is not a wild flower with us. It was brought from Europe to the gardens of New England, where it was raised as a valuable herb. Now it dyes yellow the hollows of the abandoned homestead and strays lawlessly to the borders of the high- way. The tribe of asters is even larger than that of golden-rods, numbering some two hundred species. Italy, Switzerland, and Great Britain each yield but one native variety, I believe, although others are largely cultivated; the Christmas and Michaelmas daisies of English gardens being American asters. One species, 117 Late August and Early September Aster glacialis of the botanies, is found growing 12,000 feet above the sea. The blue and purple varieties, those having blue and purple ray-flowers, that is, are much commoner than those with white ray-flowers. Over fifty of the former are found in the Northeastern States to about a dozen of the latter. Of the white species the earliest to bloom is the corymbed aster, which can be identified by its slender, somewhat zigzag stems, its thin heart-shaped leaves, and its loosely clustered flower-heads. It grows plentifully in the open woods, espe- cially somewhat northward. In swamps and moist thickets we find the umbelled aster, with its long, tapering leaves, and flat clusters which it lifts at times to a height of seven feet. A beautiful variety which is abundant along the coast is the many - flowered aster. This is a bushy, spreading plant somewhat sugges- tive of an evergreen, with little, narrow, 118 Late August and Early September rigid leaves and small, crowded flower- heads. The tall, stout stems and large violet heads of the New England aster mark one of the most striking of the purple species. It floods with color the low meadows and moist hollows along the roadside, while the wood - borders are lightened by the pale blue rays of the heart-leaved variety. There are many other species without English titles which can hardly be de- scribed without the aid of technical terms. Even the trained botanist finds himself daunted at times in his efforts to identify the various species, while the beginner is sure to be sorely tried if he set himself this task. Yet if he persevere he will be rewarded, as every roadside will supply an absorbing problem: for there is a decided fascination in detecting the individual traits of plants that to the _ untrained eye have nothing to distin- guish them from one another. The sig- 11g Late August and Early September nificance of the scientific title of the genus Aster is easily appreciated, for the effect of its flowers is peculiarly star-like. The red- purple clusters of the iron- weed are often mistaken, for asters by those who are not sufficiently observant to notice that its flower-heads are com- posed entirely of tubular blossoms, being without the ray-flowers which are essen- tial to an aster. In the iron-weed the involucre of little leaf-like scales which always surrounds the flower-head of a Composite, and which is commonly con- ‘sidered a calyx by the unbotanical, is usually of a purplish tint, each little scale being tipped with a tiny cusp or point. Its alternate leaves are long and narrow, and its tough stem is responsible for its common name. Its scientific title, Ver- nonta, was bestowed in honor of an Eng- lish botanist who travelled in this coun- try many years ago. In the rich woods the flat-topped flower — 120 Late August and Early September clusters and broad, pointed leaves of the white snakeroot, a near relative of the boneset, are noticeable. ‘This is a bright- er-looking, more ornamental plant than its celebrated kinsman. Along the streams and in the thickets the sunflowers lift their yellow heads far above our own, while the wet ditches are gilded with the bright rays of the bur-marigold. Somewhat southward the large heads of the so-called golden aster (which is not an aster at all) star the dry fields and road- sides. In moist, shaded spots we find the ephemeral day-flower, or Commelina, with its two sky-blue petals quaintly commemo- rating the two Commelyns, distinguished Dutch botanists, while the odd _ petal, which can boast little in the way of either size or color, immortalizes the comparative insignificance of a less renowned brother! -At least so runs the tradition. From barren sandy banks in much the same latitudes, spring the branching stems, 12! Late August and Early September opposite aromatic leaves, and clustered, delicate white or lavender-colored flowers of the dittany, one of the Mints. Onthe hill-side the little corollas of the blue-curls are falling so as|to reveal within the calyx the four tiny nutlets, which are a promi- nent characteristic of the same family, while the plant’s clammy, balsam-scented leaves offer another means of identification. Near the blue-curls we are likely to find the closely spiked, pea-like blossoms and three-divided leaves of the bush-clover, as well as the pink-purple flowers and downy and also clover-like foliage of another of the tick-trefoils. As these two groups of plants have so many points in common that it is somewhat difficult ordinarily to distinguish between them, it is well to re- member that the calyx of a tick-trefoil is usually more or less two-lipped, while that of a bush-clover is divided into five slender and nearly equal lobes. Two other members of the Pulse or Pea 122 Late August and Early September family are frequently encountered during the earlier part of this month. Along the grassy lanes that wind in and out among the woods are delicate clusters of pale lilac blossoms nodding from a stem which clam- bers over the thicket and twines about the iron-weeds and asters. I believe this grace- ful plant owes its unattractive name of hog- peanut to its subterranean fruit, which is said to be uprooted and devoured by hogs. In low places, climbing about whatever shrub or plant it chances to find, grows the wild bean, with thick clusters of brown and pinkish flowers which yield a delicate fragrance somewhat suggestive of violets. My experience has been that these four members of the Pulse family are espec- ially abundant along the coast. The salt meadows are bright with the purplish-pink shells of the seaside gerardia. ~ These flowers, although smaller, are al- most identical in shape with those of their relative, the yellow false foxglove, which 123 Late August and Early September we found in the woods some time ago. The slender gerardia is a similar-looking plant which abounds farther inland. ‘This genus is named after the early botanist, Gerarde, author of the famous ‘‘ Herball.”’ Its members are supposed to be more or less parasitic in their habits, drawing their nourishment from the roots of other plants. For some time the pale foliage of the salt- marsh fleabane has been conspicuous by contrast among the daily deepening flower- heads of the milkwort and the bright green leaves of the marsh St. John’s-wort, and finally it spreads before us its pink clusters of tiny, strongly scented flowers. Some weeks since I described the pick- erel-weed and arrow-head as in their prime, but it must be remembered that a plant which flowers in August in Southern New York and New Jersey may not blos- som in the mountains farther north until September. Along the Saranac River in the Adirondacks a few days ago I found 124 Late August and Early September the pickerel-weed more fully and luxuri- antly in bloom than on any previous oc- casion. ‘The slender spikes of delicate blue flowers reared themselves above great beds of dark, polished leaves, making a rich border to the winding river. Our guide told us that in spring the pickerel laid their eggs among these plants, which at that season are not visible above the water, and that later the moose fed upon their leaves. The shoals were still starred with the pure blossoms of the arrow-head, while in the current of the stream trembled the thick pink spikes of the amphibious knot- weed. At the foot of the rush- like leaves and golden- brown spires of the cat-tail, and among the soft round heads of the bur-reed, protruded the knobby - buds and coarse bright flowers of the yel- low pond-lily. In places where the logs sent down the river the previous winters had ‘‘jammed,’’ the fuzzy whitish pyra- 125 Late August and Early September mids of the meadow-sweet spired upward by the hundred. On the banks the blossoms of the fire- weed had made way for the pink, slender pods which were about to crack open, re- leasing cloudy masses of silver- winged seeds. Great clusters of delicate Osmunda ferns leaned over the water’s edge. The tall stems and white, huddled flowers of the turtle-head hardly succeeded in keeping out of the stream. As a dark curve of shore swept in sight, against its back- ground of spruce, birch, and hemlock, gleamed ‘* The cardinal and the blood-red spots, Its double in the stream.” In this flower seems to culminate the vivid beauty of the summer. Yet, despite its intense color, it is so sure to choose a cool, rich setting that it never suggests heat, as do the field flowers of the earlier year. Many of the lily pads had been turned over by the swift current, or perhaps by a 126 Late August and Early September passing boat, and showed the deep, pol- ished pink of their lower sides. Thick among them floated their placid, queenly flowers, with their green and pink-tinged sepals, and their snowy petals which pass imperceptibly into the centre of golden stamens. The bright red twigs of the dogwood, the coral clusters of the now beautiful hobble-bush and a stray branch of crimson maple lightened the more thickly wooded banks. As we left the boat, stepping upon the elastic carpet of moss and pine-needles and crossing a fallen, lichen-grown ‘ree trunk, we discovered the low white flower and violet-like leaves of the Datkbarda, and were filled with wonder and delight when we found the pink, fragrant bells of the Linnea still heralding the fame of their great master. The tiny, evergreen, birch- flavored leaves of the creeping snowberry almost hid from view its spotless fruit, but the peculiarly bright blue berries of the 127 Late August and Early September Clintonia were everywhere conspicuous as they rose above their large polished leaves. Among delicate masses of the clover-like _ foliage of the wood -sorrel lurked a late pink-veined blossom. And where we looked only for gleaming clusters of scar- let fruit we found the white, petal-like leaves of the bunchberry. If in June we were saddened by the first transmutations of flower into fruit, apparent symbols of a _year that is no longer young, in Septem- ber we are compensated by these unex- pected emblems of its eternal youth. 128 % Oh, sacrament of summer days, Oh, last communion in the haze, Permit a child to join, Thy sacred emblems to partake, Thy consecrated bread to break, Taste thine immortal wine! —EmMILy DICKINSON. VII Autumn so becoming a dress. I have a conviction of long standing that the world is fair- est when the trees are first laced with green, and little tender things are pushing up everywhere and bursting into mira- cles of delicate bloom. Yet, with each heaven-born morning of the succeeding seasons, this somewhat spasmodic faith is weakly surrendered. It is impossible to wonder at Lowell’s ‘* What is so rare as a day in June?” 131 Autumn when the lanes are first lined with white- flowered shrubs, and the air is heavy with fragrance and alive with bird - voices. Later, without one backward glance, I abandon myself to the ripe, luscious beauty of midsummer. And though, while tak- ing my first fall walk the other day (for the true fall is not here till well on in September), and while noting how the hills were veiled by a silvery mist, and how the roadsides wore a many-hued embroidery, and that the sumach in the swamp was beginning to look like the burning bush on Horeb, I felt that there could be no beauty like this, which fore- told the end; yet already I realize that before long the purple shadows will lie so softly upon the snowy fields, and the faint rose of dawn or twilight will flush with such tenderness the white side of the mountain, that the earth may seem lovelier in her shroud than in any of her living garments. 132 Autumn But it is altogether human to set es- pecial value upon the things of which we are about to be deprived, and now, more than ever, we linger out of doors, yield- ing ourselves to influences which lie upon our spirits like a benediction, storing our minds with images which, among less in- spiring surroundings, will ——‘‘ flash upon that inward eye, Which is the bliss of solitude.” Few flowers are abroad, barring the asters and golden-rods, yet these few we invest with a peculiar interest and affection, ex- periencing a sensation of gratitude, al- most, as toward some beings who have stood stanch when the multitudes fell away. No group of plants belong more distinc- tively to the season than do the gentians. Of these, the most famous, though by no means the most frequent representative, is the fringed gentian, a flower which owes, "33 Autumn I fancy, much of its reputation to Bry- ant’s well-known lines ; not that it does not deserve the interest which has cen- tred about it, but that, while everyone has heard of it, comparatively few people seem to have ferreted out its haunts. Probably Bryant, also, is largely respon- sible for the somewhat inaccurate notions which are afloat concerning its usual sea- son of blooming. This is in September, long before the ‘* woods are bare and birds are flown” ; although Thoreau, if I remember rightly, records that he found it in flower as late as November 7th, when certainly, ‘*frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end.” My first fringed gentian was the re- ward of a forty-mile drive, taken one cold autumn day for the sole purpose of paying court to its blue loveliness. It enticed us into a wet, green meadow, 134 Autumn where, picking our way from hummock to hummock, without appreciably dimin- ishing the supply, we gathered one tall cluster after another of the delicate, deep- hued blossoms. In bud the fringed petals are twisted one about the other. When the day is cloudy, or even, I should judge, if the wind is high, the full-blown flower closes in the same fash- ion. The individuals which grow in the shade are even more attractive than those which frequent the open. Their blue is lighter, with a silvery tinge which I do not recall in any other flower. Until this year I have never encountered the plant in my ordinary wanderings, but during the past few days I have found it bordering in abundance the Berkshire lanes. Being a biennial, we cannot pre- dict with certainty its whereabouts from year to year, as its seeds may be washed to some distance in the moist regions which usually it favors. 135 Autumn Far less delicate and uncommon, but still attractive, is the closed gentian. This is usually a stout, rather tall plant, with crowded clusters of deep blue or purple flowers, which never open, look- ing always like buds. It grows along the shaded roadsides, and is easily confused with other members of the group, as both the five-flowered and soapwort gentians have narrow corollas, which often appear almost closed. Certain New England woods and road- sides are now tinged with the pale blue or at times pinkish blossoms of the five-flow- ered species, while in the Adirondacks in early September, parts of the shore of the Raquette River were actually ‘‘ blued ’’ with what I take to have been the lance- leaved gentian, Gentiana linearis of the botany, formerly considered a variety of the soapwort species. ‘This conjecture as to their identity was never verified, as the specimens gathered for analysis were 136 Autumn thrown away by the guide during a storm which overtook us on one of the ‘ car- mes.’ In the wet meadows which harbor the fringed gentian we find also the white or cream-colored flowers of the grass of Par- nassus, their five veiny petals crowning a tall, slender stem, which is clasped below by a little rounded leaf. ‘There is a sug- gestion of spring in a fresh cluster of these blossoms, perhaps owing to a super- ficial resemblance to the anemones, or it may be because they have little of the hardy look of other fall flowers. Here, too, abounds the last orchid of the year, the ladies’ tresses, with small white flowers growing in a slender twisted spike. Occasionally this plant becomes ambi- tious. Leaving the low, ‘‘ wet places ’’ to which it is assigned by the botany, it climbs far up the hillsides. I never re- member seeing it in greater abundance, or more fragrant and perfect, than in a a37 Autumn field high up on the Catskill Mountains. The flowers that we care for we are apt to associate with the particular spot in which we found them first—or at their best—and the mention or sight of this little orchid instantly recalls that breezy upland with its far-reaching view, and its hum of eager bees which were sucking the rare sweets of the late year from the myriad spires among which I lay one September morning. Another plant linked for me with the same region and season is the so-called Canadian violet. ‘Till late September, along a winding mountain road, one could gather great bunches of its fresh, leafy -stemmed flowers — white, yellow- centred, fragrant, with purple veins above and violet- washed below. Near them the wild strawberries were abundantly in blossom, as they are now to some extent in Berkshire. And whenever I see a depauperate | 138 Autumn mountain-ash forlornly decorating a cor- ner of some over-civilized country-place, languishing like a handsome young bar- barian in captivity, I remember how that same road brought one to the forest which crowned the mountain’s top—to a dimly lighted path which led through mossy fern-beds, till it reached a sudden open- ing, where two great hemlocks made a frame, and a dark, distant mountain formed a background for the feathery foli- age and scarlet clusters of a superbly vig- orous specimen of this beautiful tree. If we leave the mountains and visit once more the salt meadows we notice a multi- tude of erect narrow-leaved stems, which toward their summits are studded with soft, rose-purple fowerheads. ‘This is the blazing star, one of the latest blooming and most beautiful of the Composites. Just back of the beach the gray sand- hills are warm with the slender branches and little rose-colored flowers of the sand 499 Autumn knotweed, a patch of which reminded Thoreau of ‘*a peach orchard in bloom.’’ _ The bright-hued, leafless stems of the ‘ glasswort define the borders of the road. Only a close examination convinces us of the existence of the minute flowers of this odd-looking plant, for they are so sunken in its thickened upper joints as to be al- most invisible. Now and then we come across an even- ing primrose with blossoms so wide open, delicate and fragrant, and with leaf and stem so lacking their usual rankness, that we can hardly connect it with the great, coarse plants whose brown, flowerless spikes are crowding the edge of the high- way. In this neighborhood the brilliant flowers and fleshy leaves of the seaside golden-rod are everywhere conspicuous, while farther inland the so-called blue- stemmed species, bearing its clustered heads in the leaf-angles along the stem, begins to predominate. On the moun- 140 Autumn tains and in the dry thickets of the low- lands we encounter occasionally one of the most attractive of the tribe—the sweet golden-rod, with shining, dotted, narrow leaves, which yield, when crushed, a re- freshing anise-like odor. The different asters are affording the loveliest shades of blue, purple, and lav- ender. Pre-eminent for richness of color and beauty of detail are the large, violet- hued, daisy-like heads of the showy aster, a species which is found growing in sandy soil along the coast. In the woods, nod- ding from tall stems, we notice the grace- ful, bell-like flower-heads of the rattle- snake-root. A friend writes me that in parts of Con- necticut the swamps are still bright with the great blue lobelia, and that the yellow flowers of the bur-marigold are abundant in the roadside ditches. This last-named plant holds its own through the first frosts till well on in November. Its dull-look- I4I Autumn ing sister, the common stick-tight, whose ugly brownish flower-heads are frequent in moist, waste places, is equally tenaci- ous of life—and of our clothes, to which its barbed seed-vessels cling so persistently that every walk across country means that we have innocently extended its unwel- come sway. Indeed, we can hardly spend a morn- ing out of doors at this season without having our attention drawn constantly to the many ingenious devices adopted by the different plants for the distribution of their seed. On ourselves and on our dogs we find not only the troublesome barbs of the stick-tight, but also the flat, hooked pods of the tick-trefoils, the bristly fruit of avens and goose-grass, and the prickly heads of the burdock. In the thicket the birds are already stripping the dogwoods of their red, blue, and lead-colored_ ber- ries, either releasing the seeds upon the spot or carrying them to some other and 142 Autumn perhaps more hospitable neighborhood. While the coral beads of the beautiful black alder, the red or purple sprays of the viburnums, the bright haws of the white-thorn, the scarlet pennants which stream from the barberry bushes, and the half-hidden berries of the partridge-vine, tempt them to a feast which will prove as advantageous to host as to guest. If the seeds are not trapped out in a fashion which renders them attractive to animals their transportation generally is provided in some other manner. Notice how the great pasture thistle is slowly swelling into a silvery cushion which a few brisk winds will disintegrate. Watch the pods of the milkweed crack open, re- vealing symmetrical packs (the beloved ‘¢fishes’’ of childhood) of golden-brown seeds, to each one of which is tacked a silky sail which finally unfurls and floats away with its burden. Go down to the brook and finger lightly the pod of the 143 Autumn jewel-weed, or touch-me-not. You will become so fascinated with the ingenious mechanism which causes the little seed- vessel to recoil from your touch with an elastic spring which sends the seeds far into the neighboring thicket, that you will hardly leave till the last tiny advent- urer has been started on his life-journey. On the hillside grows a shrub with wavy-toothed leaves, and a nut-like fruit which has been ripening allsummer. We know that this is the witch-hazel, because little bunches of fragrant, narrow-petalled yellow flowers are bursting from the branches. All the blossoms may not ap- pear for some time yet, but when the fruit has ripened and the leaves are fallen they will surprise us like a golden prophecy of spring. Break off and carry home a fruit- ing branch. Soon the capsules will snap elastically apart, discharging in every di- rection their black, bony contents; the action of the parent plant somewhat re- ‘ 144 Autumn calling that of the mother bird who pushes her young from the edge of the nest that they may learn to shift for themselves. Many seeds are washed by water to more or less remote neighborhoods. Some be- come attached with clods of earth to the feet of birds, and are borne to other re- gions, where they thrive or perish, ac- cording to their power of adapting them- selves to their new environment. How far this last class of travellers may journey we realize especially at this season, when nearly every day shows us fresh flocks of birds which have come under the influ- ence of that strange power which moves them ‘‘ to stretch their wings toward the South,’’ bringing them (even the more timid species) this morning to our very doorstep in search of food, inducing them to-night to resume a voyage which may terminate only in the tropics. Each walk abroad brings up new ques- tions for settlement. The last is one of 145 Autumn preference pure and simple, namely, whether the ‘‘snake’’ fence or the stone \ wall affords the greater possibilities. Till recently I had no doubt as to the zsthet- ic superiority of the stone wall. It has such infinite capacity for tumbling, for taking on a coat of lichens and mosses, —for wearing soft tints of time and weather. When quite prostrate its ruin is hidden so tenderly by blood-red tan- gles of Virginia creeper, or silky plumes of clematis, and by masses of soft ferns, which nestle lovingly about its feet. In the presence of the ideal stone wall, and I know a hundred such, there seems no room for indecision. Yet the crooked course of the ‘‘ snake ’’ fence is undeniably picturesque. Its “‘ zigzags’’ offer singularly choice re- treats for great clumps of purple-stalked, red-stained, heavy-fruited poke-weed, for groups of yellow-brown Osmunda ferns, and for festoons of bitter-sweet, with 146 Autumn orange pods split open to reveal their scarlet-coated seeds. No stone wall can yield such occasional vistas of meadow beyond, bright with golden-rod and aster, and framed by brilliant strands of black- berry vine. When its plants and shrubs and creepers are left quite unmolested, free to follow its devious course, to twine about its posts, or to peep confidingly. over its topmost rails, then, I own, my loyalty begins to waver. But after a time the rambler out of doors grows accustomed to leaving his questions unanswered. Plant-nature, es- pecially, he finds almost as inconsistent and contradictory as his own. Surprises soon cease to be surprising. Even now the rank stems of the chicory are studded with bright blue blossoms. The sun shines warm and sweet upon grass which is green and tender as in June. Sooth- ing insect- murmurs so fill the air that the absence of bird-notes is hardly felt. 147 Autumn Clover -heads are full and deep - hued, yielding stores of nectar to the bees. All about are bright groups of black-eyed Susan—a plant which two months ago looked brown and ‘‘ done for.’’ Feath- ery clusters of wild carrot (reminding Walt Whitman of ‘‘ delicate pats of snowflakes ’’) spread themselves beside the fruiting umbels, which look like col- lapsed birds’-nests. Daisies are fresh, and buttercups so glossy that one can hardly resist brushing them with his lips to see if they are actually wet. Yet the maple which leans clear across the brook is already crimson, and when we reach the rocky hillside the yellow fronds of the Dicksonia exhale a subtle fragrance which suggests decay. Another faint, elu- sive odor, starting a train of equally elu- sive memories, floats upward from the only flower at our feet, the ‘‘ life-everlasting,”’ which, as children, I hardly know why, we always associated with graves. Here, 148 Autumn where there is none of the life and fresh- ness of the meadow below, it seems to decorate the grave of summer. Dr. Holmes says concerning it: ‘*A some- thing it has of sepulchral spicery, as if it had been brought from the core of some great pyramid, where it had lain on the breast ofa mummied Pharaoh. Some- thing, too, of immortality in the sad, faint sweetness lingering long in its life- less petals. Yet this does not tell why it fills my eyes with tears, and carries me in blissful thought to the banks of asphodel that border the River of Life.’’ 149 Index Adder’s mouth, Adder’s tongue, Alders, Cae Alder, black, Anemone, : Anemone, summer, : Anemones, Arbutus, trailing, Arrow-head, Ash, mountain, Aster, golden, . Asters, 2 Avens, Azalea, wild, Eapeberry,,. . . + Barbara, St , herb of, Barberry, ee Beach-pea, . Bean, wild, Beech, : Bellflower, . Bellwort, Birches, . Bishop- weed, mock, Bitter-sweet, Blackberry-vine, Black-cap bushes, Black-eyed Susan, Bladder campion, Bladderwort, horned, Blazing star, ; Bloodroot, ISI + £25 . 142 Index Blue-curls, . Blue-eyed grass, . Bluets, : Boneset, Buckbean, . Bugbane, Bunch-berry, Burdock, Bur-marigold, Bur-reed, Bush-clover, z Bush-honeysuckle, Buttercups, Butterfly-weed, Button-bush, Cabbage, skunk, . Calopogon, Campion, bladder, Cardinal-flower, . Carrion-vine, Carrot, wild, Cat-brier, Cat-tail, . Celandine, . Chicory, . : Choke-cherries, Cinquefoil, . Clematis, Clethra, . Clintonia, Clover, . ‘ Clover; bush, . Clover-heads, . . Clover, yellow hop Cockle, corn, . Cockspur-thorn, Cohosh, black, Columbine, . 152 45, 55; eS ee ee eee ee eae oe Sensis fimtly, ee a, ee ee OME. ys a kg a e ) el ee, by eee mine OWwart cc, \ ss! oa. 6: | eae See Meise POM, on 5 4. se fs} we ee eeeeshn, WHO. . 2. gn ek ete” ee \ Cruciferae, etn ws Se) ace ty ee ep Oe See RM aS els chk a) Ve Daisies, .. tae he eae 45, 55, 72, 148 Daisies, Michaelmas, a, hg eee ee > A re ae me. PERE Aes cS os eS es ag wR ee Meee os. 8. Se a wt, ly a ee Ee ii we ee a SP ets eee so. ee ea Ce RMIT, fe OG ee gee) ow bey es ee Pe ihe eee ok eet es ee Oe _ 2 ae a ee ear ees ee EWEN nw! os Sw Ss 2 35 4 eee eewood, Tcd-O8leF, ,. . 6 sue Ge ee Dogwoods,. . Reree aE en a ar Dutchman's breeches, ~ S&S) 6 e ee eae ee Retire te Fs oe ee ks Loken ves ah oe eee PEM CARY: oo 5. vo spas [ O Sa 2 See Pier Cer WETHIC, %. “o.«:ts_.« 3, . a ne Pecmipame, =. Gs, aos Jeter ae Elms, : a? ta oy usp) Stal ogee an Enchanter’s nightshade, Serer ec Evening primrose, . : en es Evening primrose, day-blooming, oi Cat eee POAT 2 5) 6 ore!) ae) we Seem fee eh eS i Se Pee@ee We kk le lw At ew ee rr Fiap; blue;. . . ae! wey! lek pA a en Fleabane, salt- marsh, ee at ed Qa! s en Gee ew ts os Dae ae PRIIEE a | we we 8 ee 153 Index Forget-me-nots, . . s-. sys), eee 45 Foxpiove, false, « .. ..."i as eee 101, 123 Gentian, closed, . ©...) .) 5). Gentian, fringed,., . . . 3 «0 rn Gentian, five-flowered, |... 3 . = 720i Gentian, lance-leaved,.. . (s' ~ \e . soe Gentian, sGapwort, . .. -s «Js be pase ee “\\.Gentiana linearis, «. ». is a. ee Geranium; wild,-. . . . %« « s0)susee ae Gerardia, seaside, .. «. » » 92 “alelese=nn Gerardia, slender, . .-. >. 3 pee Ginger, wild,.. . .-2. «» 93°. soe) = Ginseng, dwarf, . < . « « ©5555 Gidsswort, . . .. sss se) a) Golden-rod, . . . . « s/s (= alkene Gold-thread, . 2 5 S46) 5) wpe Goose-erass, ... . « «:% = 0s) 2 ee (arape, wild, . .-. . = "2.0 a9 pee Grass-pink,. . . . -. s %s) 9s) sepia Grass of Parnassus, .-. . =. = 9) 9 9a Prerenpore faise,... 2 4. see 25; 43 38, 83 Hemlock, water, . . . 4 ae 2 89, 99 Herb of St. Seu 2 +e Ysa) Soe Hobble-bush, rman rye Hog-peanut, . . ee Honeysuckle, bush... 5. sn Honeysuckle, white swamp, . . . .\. = = Hop-clover, yellow,. . = =. %) 2 ee Indian cucumber-root,.| . .« ss & 9s: Indian moccason, §... «27 ye oni Indian pipe, . « . « «| = = =slneeeeee Inm@ize, wild, . =... 2's. 43 ee 85 Iron-weed;. . . . 5. S36 eee IIs, 120 pe eg a el er Jewel-weed, . eee 154 Index PAGE Jewel-weeds, . 107 Joe-Pye-weed,, 107, 115 Knotweed, amphibious, 125 Knotweed, sand, 140 Ladies’ tresses, 137 Lady’s slipper, ape Pure ped marcas Lady’s slipper, larger yellow, Pie tee ee te bic Lady's slipper, smaller yellow, . ...- .) 4s Lady’s slipper, sents, at ee eee 58, 83 Lambkill, ‘ ; oe Laurel, mountain, 62 Laurel, sheep, 6, 63 Laurestinus, 59 Lavender, sea, 97 Life-everlasting, . 148 Lilium superbum, 82 Lily, meadow, 77 Lily, tiger, De iK 81 Lily, Turk’s cap, . 86 Lily, water, z 127 Lily, wood, . : 80 Lily, yellow pond, 125 Linnea, . 39, 127 Liverwort, 25, 26 Lobelia, great blue, ~ EAE Loosestrife, four-leaved, ee Loosestrife, purple, . + tog Loosestrife, yellow, . 66, 89 Lopseed, . 108 Lupine, 45 Matanthemum, . 34 Mallows, Sit a» 0s) Ap GRE Seen Maple, . 18, 23, 22.28 Marigold, bur, Marigold, marsh, Marsh marigold, Marsh rosemary, » 2 ae Ze 36 - ow eee 155 Index PAGE Marsh, St. John's-wort, . . . |» «(pene May-apple,. .. 2 8 eo! ea) ae Meadow-beauty,. . . «+s « = ss) sneenee Meadow-parsnip, . ewe ee Meadow-parsnip, early, oo 0a Sa 2 ee Meadow-rue, tall, . . 2 ~ (s) © gee | Meadow-sweet, og be) Sal 0 Fe ee nn j Wiilkweed, . . 5 & 5 eine eee / Milkwort, .. 8 | ee Moccason, Indian, oe bal ek SUB oe ee Mock bishop- weed, . ‘« 0 « «« ©) 9 0)aiee Monkey-flower, . . . « «° «| = \)«)050ueeeeeee Moth-mulléin,. . . « . “5 Sap ose Mountain laurel, . .° - «| ss 5) Gee Phulléin, . 6 6 ee ws 6 a Mustards, . . . < « » = @ salen New Jersey tea, . . . oe 2 ae Nightshade, enchanter’ S, Pe ee GCI: nis Ss es a tie en 9 IO, 40, 4, 100 Girehis, preen, . .. : . «on Oy ae Orchis, purple-fringed, ‘great, 5 cede lgan Se 42 Orchis, purple-fringed, smaller,. . . . 84, 108 Orchis, showy, . - 5) ey eee = ee Orchis, white, northern, . «ee @ ah Orchis, yellow-fringed, it wae Osmunda, .. -« - ee 42, 126, 146 Parsley family, . . . «*_ s\lelue) en Bassleys,.-". o's wad Me Dot Parsnip, early meadow, ob Oh eth See Parsnip, mieadow, . « «.% /eae lee Partridge vine; . . . 3.0, <0 .6) nee Pea, beach, . .. «+ «= =) =5) Peanut, hog, -. .. «| s 0) #. mene Pickerel weed,.... . -.«.«) so) eee Pimpernel, .. .. . «' «©» )) =) Pink, grass, . . . «. «. s, «stn Pink, sea, . - 2 0 «ws . 6 ey ee en Pipsissewa, . Pitcher plant, Poison ivy, . Poke-weed, . Polygala, fringed, Polypodium, . . Pond lily, yellow, . Poor man’s weather-glass,. Primrose, evening, Primrose, blooming evening, Pulse family , eRe iy Pyrola, . Quaker-ladies, Radish, wild, Ragwort, golden, . Raspberry bushes, Raspberry, purple- flowering, Rattlesnake root, . Rattlesnake weed, _ fons a ere. DUEL, 2S. es Rhexia, . - Rhododendron. Rose, wild, Rosemary, marsh, Rue, meadow, . Sabbatia, eager St. John’ s-wort, *) marsh, . oa fleabane, Saxifrage, early, . Sea-lavender, . Sea-pinks, . Self-heal, . Shad-bush, _ Sheep laurel, Sheep-sorrel, a5/ 102, 140 Index Silkweed, a2 Skullcap, larger, . Skunk cabbage, Snakeroot, white, Snowberry, creeping, Solidago, a Solomon's seal, ; Solomon's seal, false, Sorrel, sheep, Sorrel, wood, Sorrel, wood, common, Speedwell, . Spice-bush, Spring beauty, Stargrass, Stick- tight, . Strawberries, wild, Sumach, Sumach, staghorn, Sunflowers, Swallow-worts, Swamp mallows, . Tansy, _ Tea, New Jersey, Thimble-weed, Thistle, Thorn, cockspur, Thorn, white, . Thyme, wild, Tick-trefoil, Tiger-lily, Touch-me-not, Trailing arbutus, Trefoil, tick, Trifolium incarnatum, Trillium, white, Trillium, painted, « 5 Turtle-head, 158 115, - 73, 109; 99, 108, 122, 99, 108, 122, ‘- Twayblade, Twinflower, Twisted stalk, Index PAGE . . . . . . . ° . . 58 wd ter lowe ph hace eee ae = ae er MS Aa oa "34, 108 Umbellifere, 38 Vernonia, ENE Sea ee Ree id ate . 120 Det veIay PUPPIES se oe Seo on ep Oat ee aie ae Vetch, blue, : eae. Viburnum, . 33: 43: 38 50, 6o, 103, 143 Violets, + Lat See ae REP CREEPER GG kw ee, bie ee Wake-robin, Water-hemlock, ; ’ : } : ; : : . 89, 99 28 Whip-poor-will’s-shoe, . lt Gch Biptwe: Satent he Oceana Whitehearts, White-thorn, Willow-herb, Willows, . Winter-cress, Wintergreen, Witch-hazel, Wood lily, . Wood-sorrel, Wood-sorrel, Yarrow, . eee a Rel VPP ED OR ek RNR S!- : Si va * wo wk ell Seve ees cima are 20 37 86 - 144 80 Goninon: << a ee Ps Se eee . . . . . . . . . . . . Ics #59 5522