on JUNE IN FRANCONIA. 
I wished, also, to say something of sun- 
dry minor enjoyments: of the cinnamon 
roses, for example, with the fragrance of 
which we were continually greeted, and which 
have left such a sweetness in the memory 
that I would have called this essay “June 
in the Valley of Cinnamon Roses,” had I 
not despaired of holding myself up to so 
poetic a title. And with the roses the wild 
strawberries present themselves. Roses and 
strawberries! It is the very poetry of sci- 
ence that these should be classified together. 
The berries, like the flowers, are of a gener- 
ous turn (it is a family trait, I think), lov- 
ing no place better than the roadside, as if 
they would fain be of refreshment to beings 
less happy than themselves, who cannot be 
still and blossom and bear fruit, but are 
driven by the Fates to go trudging up and 
down in dusty highways. For myself, if I 
were a dweller in this vale, | am sure my 
finger-tips would never be of their natural 
color so long as the season of strawberries 
lasted. On one of my solitary rambles I 
found a retired sunny field, full of them. 
To judge from appearances, not a soul had 
been near it. But I noticed that, while the 
