SUMMER PAUSES 



snake's-head. Fair are the sheathed ber- 

 ries of the prickly ash but daggers to the 

 taste. Often they grow among wild cher- 

 ries, which, juiceless now, are sweet as 

 dried fruits from Persia. And there are 

 the black nannyberries with their water- 

 melon flavor, and the first spicy wild 

 grapes. 



Immortelles are bleached paper white 

 on sandy hills. The nightshade holds 

 berries of three colors, passing from bril- 

 liant green to clouded amber and deep 

 crimson lake, and still upon it hangs the 

 mysterious blue blossom, shunned. Dog- 

 wood boughs are gorgeous as a sunset, 

 and the thick scarlet clusters droop from 

 the mountain ash. The last humming 

 birds haunt tanned honeysuckles. Lan- 

 guid, but clinging yet to the sun world, 

 the yellow lily dies on weedy streams. If 

 the all-conquering goldenrod hangs the 

 way for summer's passing with the color 

 of regret, it has made every meadow El 

 Dorado with its plumes, sprays, clumps, 

 and spears. Spray upon delicate spray, 

 the fairy lavender aster has taken posses- 

 sion of the roadsides and fields, and before 

 it, far into the shade, goes the white wood 



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