THE AMERICAN BOTANIST 91 



Now you are skirting" a wet meadow-land: there's lung- 

 wort as tall as a man, twinkling stars of blue-eyed grass, ex- 

 ploded swirls of shooting stars, beds cf aromatic mint, mats of 

 silver-weed and a few red mountain lilies. 



On that burned oyer ground you'll see purple thistles, pink- 

 fire weed, sometimes called "willow-herb" from the shape of its 

 leaves, the gilia's rosy trumpets and the false forget-me-not's 

 baby blue. 



To the very tops of our mountains you'll find them, zyga- 

 dene, bistort, daisies, buttercups, forget-me-nots, saxifrage, 

 orpine and hundreds more, crowding each other for possession 

 of every inch of soil. 



As the season advances, asters follow the daisies and 

 golden-rod, sage and gum-weed come into flower. Everywhere 



"You'll see gems in yellow 

 Nodding, each one to his fellow." 



for sunflowers, ragworts and their like gild every nook and 

 cranny. Cotton-grass and gentians glow on the creek banks 

 long after the first frosts have chilled the night air. I have 

 found perfect blossoms of northern gentian and potentilla 

 above timber line in October; and asters, rabbit-brush and 

 torch-weed are often quite brilliant on sunny spots in the foot 

 hills as late as November. 



Whether you are fishing in June, hiking in July, camping 

 in August or hunting later in the season, the flowers are always 

 by your path. Whether or not your trip is successful in other 

 ways, you've but to look as you pass to gather for yourself 

 rich plunder from the vegetation of our hills. Long after the 

 more material impressions have passed away your soul will 

 revel in recollections of the blossoms' gold, the silver of the 

 leaves, little emerald hollows that flashed in the sun, radiant 

 amethystine swales, and rich bits of glowing blue, like scattered 

 chips of turquoise float from the mother lode of the kindly sky 

 that overhangs it all. 



