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tender hue tinges the fallow where sprout- 

 ing wheat upthrusts its tiny spears ! Mead- 

 ows show green as in May. From plough- 

 land you sniff the fine, subtle fragrance of 

 new -turned earth; athwart and between 

 hedge-rows wave flames of sumach and sas- 

 safras, all awreath with clematis and wild 

 grape and wax-leaved bramble-brier ; par- 

 tridge-vine, too, brave in deep-green leaves 

 and coral-red berries. It puts to shame the 

 laggard flowers that yet lurk in sheltered 

 nooks. Aster, golden - rod, even the deep- 

 blue gentian, look poor and pale by con- 

 trast. Spice-wood, though, quite outdazzles 

 it. All the thicket is aflaunt with its red, 

 red fruit and big, rough leaves. Up among 

 them Indian-turnip thrusts her glowing cone 

 a torch of flame to light the summer's 

 flitting. Ginseng, too, holds up even richer 

 red. Is it not wonderful that the flower of 

 it so pale, so weak, so utterly without dis- 

 tinction should be forerunner to such splen- 

 dor ? Is it not typical of some lives ? But 

 why vex you with speculation when such 

 sweet haze rims the world, such airs breathe 

 through, and over all sifts the long benedic- 

 tion of sunlight and falling leaves ? 



