Qtoon 



wonder, so little would it take to fan these glowing 

 petals into flame. 



The marsh marigolds of May spread the meadows 

 with a glow of warmth, yet that was but a gilded fire 

 beside the wilting, withering heat of this midsummer 

 lily. That early flush has gone. There is hardly a 

 fleck of spring's freshness and delicacy on the fields, 

 none of the tenderness of the bluets that touched 

 everything in May, none even of the softness of the 

 hardwood greens that lasted far into June. The colors 

 are set now, dry and glistening, as if varnished over. 

 The odors, too, have changed. They were moist and 

 faint then, the fragrance of the breath of things. 

 Now they are strong, pungent, heavy, the tried-out 

 smells of the sweat of things. 



Life has grown lusty and lazy and rank. It stood 

 no higher than the heads of the violets along my 

 little river at the coming of June ; to-day I cannot 

 catch a glimpse of the water without breaking 

 through a hedge of swamp milkweed, boneset, and 

 peppermint. Here are turtle-head, joe-pye-weed, jew- 

 el-weed, the budding goldenrods, and the spreading, 

 choking, rasping smartweed. The year is full grown. 

 It is strong, rich, luxuriant. 



