To-day I saw a sunflower in the woods.
It is pleasant to see the Viola pedata blossoming again now, in September, with a beauty somewhat serener than that of these yellow flowers.
The trees on the bank of the river have white furrows worn about them, marking the height of the freshets, at what levels the water has stood.
Water is so much more fine and sensitive an element than earth. A single boatman passing up or down unavoidably shakes the whole of a wide river, and disturbs its every reflection. The air is an element which our voices shake still further than our oars the water.
The red maples on the river, standing far in the water when the banks are overflown and touched by the earliest frosts, are memorable features in the scenery of the stream at this season.
Now you can scent the ripe grapes far off on the banks as you row along. Their fragrance is finer than their flavor.
My companion said he would drink when the boat got under the bridge, because the water would be cooler in the shade, though the stream quickly passes through the piers from shade to sun again. It is something beautiful, the act of drinking, the stooping to imbibe some of this widespread element, in obedience to instinct, without whim. We do not so simply drink in other influences.
It is pleasant to have been to a place by the way a river went.
The forms of trees and groves change with every stroke of the oar.
It seems hardly worth the while to risk the dangers of the sea between Leghorn and New York for the sake of a cargo of juniper berries and bitter almonds.