i8o OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



stream come the scents of the flowers in bloom 

 above. Just a week or two ago the dominant 

 odor among these was the sticky sweetness of the 

 azalea. It is an odor that breathes of laziness. 

 Only the hot, damp breath of the swamp carries 

 it and lulls to languor and to sensuous dreams. 

 Mid-August is near and though here and there a 

 belated azalea bloom still glows white in the dusk 

 of the swamp its odor seems to have no power to 

 ride the wind. Instead a cleaner, finer perfume 

 dances in rhythmic motion down the dell, sway- 

 ing in sprightly time to the under rhythm of the 

 brook's tone, a scent that seems to laugh as it 

 greets you, yet in no wise losing its inherent, 

 gentle dignity. The wild clematis is the fairest 

 maiden of the woodland. She, I am convinced, 

 knows all the brook says and loves to listen to it, 

 twining her arms about the alder shrubs, bending 

 low till her starry eyes are mirrored in the 

 dimpled surface beneath her, and always sending 

 this teasing, dainty perfume out upon the breeze 

 that it may call to her new friends. Long ago 

 the Greeks named the Clematis Virgin's Bower, 

 but our wild variety is more than that. It is the 

 virgin. 



To smell the perfume of the clematis on the 



