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HAY HARVEST TIME 



wanders in from the roadside and will not 

 thereafter be denied. Yarrow with its 

 balsam fragrance and fernlike leaf, the 

 first delicate wild carrot asway, goldfinch 

 yellow of the moth mullein, cloverheads of 

 the Tyrian dye, sunny spray of mustard, lie 

 scattered on the crests of hayfield waves. 



In the lowgrounds, on bowldered hill- 

 sides, far in the woods, wherever the mow- 

 ing machine will grant it a summer, 

 spreads the exquisite wild rose, dowered 

 like other flowers of June the water 

 lily, the wild-grape blossom, the syringa 

 with a perfume as wistfully sweet as the 

 form and hue of its chalice. That fra- 

 grance, unearthly, never fails to bring a 

 catch of the breath, a start of memory, 

 when in whatever place it is encountered 

 again. You seldom find a wild rose with- 

 ered; they cast their petals down without 

 a struggle, and a throng of ardent pink 

 buds are waiting on the bush. So it is 

 with the water lily when the hour strikes 

 she draws her green cloak once more about 

 her and retires from the sun. 



The meadow rue has shaken out veil 

 upon floating veil in the woodlands. The 

 shaded knolls are sprinkled lavender with 



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