THE MONTH OF YELLOW FLOWERS 



star of orange and umber is about to 

 set. 



Who knows, besides the birds, that em- 

 broidered on the moss new scarlet par- 

 tridge berries are ripe, hung from the 

 vagrant vine of pale-veined leaf that does 

 not fear the snow? Only a month ago in 

 this fairy greenery lay the furry white 

 partridge blossom, almost invisible, but 

 with a fragrance like that of just-opened 

 water lilies, and now the green fruit colors 

 to the Christmas hue. There are no 

 flowers like these. The wood fairies wear 

 them with their gowns of spangled cobweb 

 trimmed with moonlight. 



Bough apples, with a sweetness like that 

 of flowers distilled by the intense sun, 

 show the first brown seeds. From the 

 high-piled loads of hay journeying slowly 

 to the mow fall the dried buttercups and 

 daisies that danced in the mowing grass. 

 Ceaseless are locusts; heavy is the air above 

 the garden, where phlox and strawberry 

 shrub tinge it Persian-sweet. Clustered 

 blueberries are drooped upon the moun- 

 tains, and in the swamps, sometimes over 

 quicksands, shows the darkling sheen of 

 the high-bush huckleberry. The odor of 



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