A Cool, Gray Day. 203 



strangely beautiful were the spires of bloom of the 

 pontederias, now nearly a foot beneath the surface 

 of the^ water ! It was a flower-garden for the 

 fishes, and when their silvery sides flashed in the 

 light among the purple blossoms of the pickerel- 

 weed, there was then and there a brightness that 

 contrasted with the cool, gray day of the outer 

 world. But before wandering long, I find color, 

 and in such abundance and brilliancy that the day 

 needs nothing else to warm the cool shadows. 

 Along the water's edge, where other growths hold 

 back that they may shed their glory freely, stand 

 in unbroken ranks the lusty stalks of lobelia, 

 weighted with scarlet banners. Even the fresh 

 young summer had nothing to equal this, and 

 here present joy holds us rather than sober retro- 

 spection. All effort seems to have fallen short, 

 however bright the season's earlier blossoms. Not 

 until now have we seen the crowning effort 

 of nature's artist. Does there occur anywhere 

 throughout this wide world a more brilliant spec- 

 tacle than masses of scarlet lobelia in the height 

 of bloom ? 



There came no cheerful flood of mellow light 



