264 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



their heads and a new blossom time comes back 

 to the brown, despondent goldenrod. A warmth 

 glows in its pith which is as dear as that of its 

 prime yet has in it some of the stir of autumn 

 crispness. Under its power the draggled clots 

 that once were flowers lift, fluff out, bud and 

 bloom as does the magic plant under the potent 

 spell of the sorcerer of the Far East. You may 

 see on such Indian summer mornings the florets 

 of these dead goldenrod stems lifting and spread- 

 ing and before your very eyes the plant bursts 

 into bloom once more. These blooms are the 

 day-time ghosts with which the November pas- 

 tures are full, misty gray flowers that stand on 

 the same receptacles that held the yellow blooms 

 of late summer, but are lovelier far than the first 

 blossoms were. Each dewy night, each rainy 

 day, they shrivel and seem to pass but the warmth 

 of the sun and the drying wind need but a brief 

 hour in which to bring them all out again. After 

 Indian summer has gone for good and the De- 

 cember snows are deep the stiff stems will still 

 hold these renewing gray blooms above the drifts 

 and make all the pasture beautiful with the 

 ghosts of summer flowers. Nor, lovely as they 

 are to my eye, will they be less beautiful to the 



