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east, but comes not out west (shame on 

 the aristocracy of this sweet prisoner of 

 humility); and the dumb fox-glove is a resident 

 only in limited quarters; but golden-rod is a beautiful 

 democrat, and comes wherever we are, and makes 

 glad at our door, and kindles its wonderment of color 

 to the whole continent's delight. Golden-rod is the 

 common folk's flower, like the hollyhock and old- 

 fashioned roses and almost forgotten four o 'clocks. 

 There is rare grace in a frond of the golden-rod. 

 Did you ever notice that? Did you ever see a 

 gawky golden-rod? I never have. Its spike of 

 flowers leaning a little in half bashfulness, though 

 standing so tall and stately, this pose is itself a 

 picture. I do wonder if these smiling lovelinesses 

 are sitting for their pictures? I will not believe 

 so, for I think them too frank by odds to be 

 dramatic. But if you care to sketch the golden- 41 

 rod, hit or miss, you will be impressed by the / 

 continuity of gracefulness. What glorious * ; 

 golden-rod I have gathered in Connecticut, near 

 beautiful Canaan, where the hills are sponges which 

 squeeze out springs and rivulets and rushing streams, 

 and where at night you can hear the dim calling of 

 the waterfalls through the cloudy darkness where 

 the stream tumbles down a bank in its hurry to reach 

 the Housatonic; and what torches have I seen and 

 gathered in the White Mountains in sight of Mount 

 Washington! I do believe that had I carried them 

 in the dark for a torch they would have lit the way 

 like a flaming pine knot; but they have lit my 



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