32 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, I 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 



