ASTERS. 73 



house, will hang its red flowers in front of the 

 library windows for a fortnight still to come. But 

 the year is virtually at an end, and we talk only of 

 the bulbs for the spring, or of the moving of shrubs 

 in the early winter. 



Yet I find two things, of which I have still 

 to speak. The Asters have been good. I had 

 planted them in among the standard Rose beds, 

 and very gay they are. Many years have passed 

 s : nce I found the wild Aster of America growing 

 on the hill-side at Concord behind Hawthorne's 

 house, and was reminded of Emerson's lines 



" Chide me not, laborious band, 



For the idle flowers I brought ; 

 Every Aster in my hand 



Goes home loaded with a thought." 



Then, by the side of the vinery, is growing a little 

 row of Indian Corn. The plants stand each from 

 9 to 1 1 feet high, and each bears its flowering 

 plume above, and its tasselled ears below. There 

 are two varieties, one yellow and one red. I 

 brought them on in heat, and planted them out 

 when they were about a foot in height. This year, 

 as for three years past, they have ripened with me, 

 and on one plant, strangely enough, a piece of the 



