stem 



seldom considered. Some slight consideration 

 should be shown the healthy, and their wishes con- 

 sulted at far-removed nows and thens. The golden- 

 rod is one of my delights. From the time the first 

 slender spike flashes its light upon the eyes to the 

 last burnt-out splendor drooping shamed upon its 

 , I keep them in my study. I love their warm 

 light their laughter in bloom (for so their 

 glow impresses me). I do not feel obligated 

 to tell why I love what I love, and if pressed 

 by some purist, I will not, but if let alone will 

 probably disclose the secret of my passion. 



I love golden-rod because there is plenty of 

 it, and 1 like plentiful things; hence, children, 

 men, women, trees, stars, common-place things 

 and people are dear to me. Golden-rod 

 blooms mainly in flocks, as pigeons fly, and in 

 many flocks, along fences, in pastures, by 

 woods, in the woods, along highways (thank 

 them for that courtesy). They are as the 

 poet who pipes as the hedge sparrow does, 



"/ build my house by the side of the road." 

 Where the dust clouds and chokes you on 

 the long sun-burnt road, golden-rod will toss out 

 its yellow light like some one you love looking 

 at you through an open window. 

 Golden-rod grows all across our 

 America, in the north and south, in 

 Maine and California. It is a hardy 

 traveler. It dogs man's steps. 

 Trailing arbutus grows in 

 New England and the north- 



