During this first autumn rain, those of us who are so fortunate as to live in the country are conscious of a strange odor pervading all the air. It is as though Dame Nature were brewing a vast cup of herb tea, mixing in the fragrant infusion all the plants dried and stored so carefully during the summer.
When the clouds vanish after this baptismal shower, everything is charmingly fresh and pure, and we have some of the rarest of days. Then the little seeds, harbored through the long summer in Earth's bosom, burst their coats and push up their tender leaves, till on hillside and valley-floor appears a delicate mist of green, which gradually confirms itself into a soft, rich carpet—and all the world is in verdure clad. Then we begin to look eagerly for our first flowers.
FLOWER DESCRIPTIONS
A FANCY
I think I would not be A stately tree, Broad-boughed, with haughty crest that seeks the sky. Too many sorrows lie In years, too much of bitter for the sweet: Frost-bite, and blast, and heat, Blind drought, cold rains, must all grow wearisome, Ere one could put away Their leafy garb for aye, And let death come.
Rather this wayside flower! To live its happy hour Of balmy air, of sunshine, and of dew. A sinless face held upward to the blue; A bird-song sung to it, A butterfly to flit On dazzling wings above it, hither, thither,-- A sweet surprise of life,--and then exhale A little fragrant soul on the soft gale, To float--ah! whither?
--INA D. COOLBRITH.