98 IValks in New England 



shining season the thrill of that endless vitality 

 stirs the most sluggish pulse. 



The air is full summer, and the sweet oppres 

 sion of the breeze, shot through by the rising sun, 

 opens the day with myriad perfumes. There is 

 not a flower or fern or unfolding leaf of the woods 

 that does not contribute to the fragrance of the 

 hour. The sweet briar wafts its wild tenderness 

 over the multitude of lesser scents, and a spicy 

 odour from the tasseling black birch follows swift 

 behind. Another touch, and the sweet fern s 

 pervasive scent steals to the nostrils. A little tang 

 of bitterness swings in from the poplar and the 

 tonic willow, and more spice from the sassafras. 

 But while one detects such individual fragrances, 

 be sure that something in the air is due to blos 

 soming hickory and elm and red maple, and the 

 oaks, too, just opening, have their honey, which 

 wild bees love, and many another insect. 



Then deeper, stronger, more constant than all, 

 wherever they grow, the pines and hemlocks, the 

 cedars and firs and spruces, swell the rich gift of 

 the breeze. And their balsam heightens as the 

 fervour of the day draws on, and the magnetic sun 

 pierces their tossing depths, and the conifers yield 

 of their secret, treasured essences, and thrill the 

 sense beyond all that the rest can do. The 

 flowers that spring and bloom and fade so quickly, 



