'The very flower to take
Into the heart, and make
The cherished memory of all pleasant places;
Name but the light harebell,
And straight is pictured well
Where'er of fallen state lie lonely traces.
Old slopes of pasture ground,
Old fosse and moat and mound,
Where the mailed warrior and crusader came;
Old walls of crumbling stone
With ivy overgrown,
Rise at the mention of the harebell's name.'"
Miss Prillwitz pointed out more obscure plants, and gave us interesting bits of information in regard to them. Some had strangely human characteristics. The cassia, a shrinking sensitive-plant with yellow blossoms, was one of these, while the poison-ivy in its unctuous growth had an evil and malignant appearance which seemed to hint at its inimical nature. She told us how to tell the poisonous sumac from the harmless variety, the poisonous kind being the only one that has pendant fruit. She gave us also a little chat about parasitic plants, suggested by a gerardia, a little thief which draws its nutriment from the roots of huckleberry.
"I did not know that plants had so little conscience," said Winnie. "It reminds me of a guest a Southern gentleman had, who remained twelve years, and after the death of the host married his widow."
"Plants seem also to be cruel," said Miss Prillwitz. "Zere is ze apocynum, a carnivorous plant which eat ze insect. You should read of him by Darwin. He set a trap for ze fly wiz some honey, and when Mr. Fly tickle ze plant, quick he is caught, and Mr. Apocynum he eat him, and digest him at his leisures."
"Miss Prillwitz, you should write a book for young people, and call it 'Near Nature's Heart,'" I suggested.
"I would so like," replied Miss Prillwitz, "but if I waste my time to write, how should I earn my lifes? I have know many author, and very few do make their wealths by—by their authority."
Miss Prillwitz brought out the last word triumphantly, quite sure that she had achieved a success in our difficult language. I turned aside to Mr. Stillman, that she might not see my smile. "How interesting she makes our climb," I said, "and all these wayside weeds! 'She illustrates the landscape.'"
"In my humble opinion it is Miss Sartoris who 'illustrates the landscape,'" he replied. "See what a picture she makes reaching after those sweet-briar blossoms! I wish I had not left my detective at the station."
Miss Sartoris was indeed very pretty. It seemed to me that she grew younger and more bewitching with every day of our trip. Each changing pose as she leisurely picked the wild roses was full of grace, but I could hardly understand why Mr. Stillman should greatly regret not securing this particular view, when she had figured in at least half of the photographs which he had taken.
We reached the top of the mountain just at sunset. The west glowed with a yellow-green color. The strange clouds, which had been as white as curds in the afternoon, were now dark blue, lighted by flashes of heat lightning. They moved forward like the pillar which led the Israelites, great billowy masses piled one on the other and toppling at the summit, while they melted at the base into a mist of rain. Behind them was the background of the sunset, like a plate of hammered gold dashed with that sinister green. There were threatening rumblings in the east also, and Amherst and its college buildings were blotted out by the rain clouds, which resembled the petals of a fringed gentian, and seemed to be traveling rapidly in our direction.