THE STARS OF AUTUMN 



\JO one, it seems, has ever called an aster anything but an 

 **" ~ aster. Aster is the name given by the pedants, it is also 

 the name used by the extreme unlearned. Spectacled scientist 

 and tousled peasant for once use the same language. An aster 

 is an aster. 



Away back when botanies were not thought of someone 

 admired the purple and white delights of autumn and called 

 them stars. Aster is the Greek word for star. No one ever 

 improved on this designation. They are the earth stars of 

 autumn. They are the year's last floral fulfillment. They are 

 the completion of the cycle; solid, substantial, self-reliant; yet 

 wonderfully beautiful. Only the freakish witchhazel waits to 

 bloom after the asters. 



So common are the earth stars that they fail to command 

 adequate attention. Every wild roadside is alive with them. 

 Every pasture displays them, every woodland, every brook 

 vale, every waste desolation of suburban metallic garbage. At 

 home in the most entrancing dell of the remote ravine lands 

 and equally at home where the tin cans fester and rust in 

 shameful heaps they mark the year's last effort to beautify the 

 world. The goldenrod is their lesser helper; for the goldenrod 

 is more easily discouraged and her satisfied hue carries no mes- 

 sage of forward-looking cheer comparable to the azure hope- 

 fulness of the asters. 



Of asters there is an abounding variety. Commonly they 

 are classed as purple or white; but this is absurdly superficial. 

 Purple is no proper classification of the many shades of tinged 



