Music of the Wild 



and sandy, but close the water, and spring from 

 a deeply-rooted bulb. The leaves are like those of 

 The a tuberose, and from a tall, slender stem grow 

 Bumble- sm gi e flowers forming a cluster that slightly re- 

 sembles hyacinths. They are loaded with pollen, 

 and the wild honey-bee and all species of bumble- 

 bees, in fact, ants, flies, and sweet-lovers of every 

 family, feast upon them. They are one of the 

 rarest and most beautiful blues of nature, and the 

 music around them is unceasing. 



From the top of an elevation from which the 

 sweet marsh grass had been shorn I looked down 

 to a cultivated strip bordering a marsh, last 

 August. I could see blades of corn waving, and 

 distinguish a solid mass of peculiar blue-green. 

 Making my way through the intervening swamp, 

 and climbing a fence buried in bloom, I came to 

 the queerest effort at cultivation I ever had seen. 

 From a layer of soil so thin that it would not bear 

 my weight without quivering beneath me the flow- 

 ers had been mowed, and with such cultivation as 

 could be given with a hoe were growing the finest 

 cucumbers and cabbage imaginable. The picture 

 I made there illustrates the character of the soil 

 and proves how closely men are pressing the marsh, 

 as no words of mine can. 



It was Thoreau who, in writing of the destruc- 

 tion of the forests, exclaimed, "Thank Heaven, 

 they can not cut down the clouds!" Aye, but they 

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