150 THE BIKCH AND THE ALDER. 



to wither, and foxglove bells in twos and threes 

 where once were tall spires of nodding purple ; the 

 scabious and the golden-rod are holding festival ; 

 the ferns have unrolled their last leaflets of braid 

 and spangle; the heather is fast uncovering its 

 bosom to the bees ; ah, see ! there are berries, too, 

 upon the vitis idcea, and beautiful round galls, like 

 unripe cherries, upon the oak-leaves ; and here, too, 

 is the nipplewort, covered over with little green 

 seed-baskets, and that goes on blossoming so cheer- 

 fully till Christmas. A fair and pleasant plant is 

 this ; the blossoms open only to the sunshine, yet it 

 can sustain the rain and cold, and though the frost 

 may blanch it, the form remains to the last. Now 

 we wind along the shady pathway by the river, and 

 list its sweet babble, that never ceases, winter or 

 summer, marking too, as we go, the great stones 

 that tell of the vehemence of the flood that so wasted 

 the banks. Are the birches down here ? I think 

 not ; we are too near the water's edge. Try among 

 those beautiful green crowds upon the upper ridges, 

 that seem asleep in the amber sunlight, with above 

 them that glorious inheritance men call the sky, to- 

 day blue as turquoise or forget-me-not, and islanded 

 with molten silver. Surely we shall have them now ! 

 Ah, yes. Here spread those beautiful white arms ; 

 here sweep the leafy tresses ; let the stream rejoice 

 in its alders ; the birch is for the uplands, where it 

 shall receive the first caresses of the morning, and 



