and very full of meaning. In an elect moment, Whittier made music 

 for the winds to make their meaning clear: 



"Yet on my cheek I feel the western wind, 



And hear it telling to the orchard trees, 



And to the faint and flower-forsaken bees, 



Tales of fair meadows green with constant streams, 

 And mountains rising blue and cold behind 



Where in moist dells the purple orchis gleams, 

 And starred with white the virgin's bower is twined. 



So the overwearied pilgrim as he fares 

 Along life's summer waste, at times is fanned 



Even at noontide by the cool, sweet airs 

 Of a serener and a holier land." 



And winds laded with odors you can not escape their sweet com- 

 radeship. And winds blowing across a field where haycocks exhale fra- 

 grance, who can escape their witchery? Such winds know how to spoil 

 waters and fields and forests of spikenards and balsams. I have in- 

 haled fragrance from winds blown fresh from the sea through moors of 

 purple heather, and can I forget the poetry of it even in heaven? I 

 pray I may not. 



Winds of spring, apple-scented and with earth-smell in them ! And 

 walking through woods at night when dew drips from the leaves and 

 the score or more of odors saturate the air, and the frog's song sings 

 up from marshes and ravines as if that were audible odor, and star- 

 light plays hide-and-seek with you through the foliage, when there puffs 

 in your face the musk of many odors mixed, then you could catch the 

 Wind and kiss her on the cheek like a girl, for sheer delight. Then 

 when lilacs blow, and spring hastens on to June and white clover chokes 

 the air with heavy perfumes, and roses tell in the dark where they are 

 blooming by the fragrance they lent the breeze as it strayed indolently 

 through their dear delights, or later, when harvests spill their essences to 

 the languorous winds, and later still, when winds bear their sad freightage 

 of autumn leaves falling, or fallen, and faded. the wind is the poet 

 laureate of autumn; and the lonely, tearful music and autumnal fra- 

 grance of leaf-distilled perfumes fairly drug the senses of the spirit till 

 perforce the winds make us poets against our will and reason. 



In one of Hosea Biglow's pastoral preludes (bless him who wrote 

 them and gave us Hosea!) is a touch of genius in discriminating 

 odors. "Mr. Wilbur sez to Hosea, 'Wut's the sweetest smell on 



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