THE HAUNTS OF FLOWERS. 65 



dryads drape the rocks with ferns, and Naiads collect the 

 dews of morning and pour them into their oozy fountains 

 for the perfection of their verdure. 



A ride over the roads of the same region is not so pleas- 

 ant as these intricate journeys of the botanist. He frater- 

 nizes with all the inhabitants of the wood, and with the la- 

 borers of the farms which he crosses, not heeding the cau- 

 tions to trespassers. He meets the rustic swairi at his 

 plough, and listens to his quaint discourse and his plati- 

 tudes about nature and mankind. He follows the devi- 

 ous paths of the ruffed grouse, and destroys the snares 

 which are set for its destruction. He listens to its muf- 

 fled drum while he cools his heated brow under a canopy 

 of maples overarched with woodbine, and picks the scar- 

 let berries that cluster on the green knolls at his feet. He 

 lives in harmony with all created things, and hears the 

 voices of the woods and music of the streams. The trees 

 spread their shade over him ; every element loads him 

 with its favors. Morning hails him with her earliest sal- 

 utation, and introduces him to her fairest hours and 

 sweetest gales. Noon tempts him into her silent wood- 

 land sanctuaries, and makes the hermit thrush his soli- 

 tary minstrel. Evening calls him out from his retreat, to 

 pursue another varied journey among the fairy realms of 

 vegetation, and ere she parts with him curtains the heav- 

 ens with splendor and prompts her choir 'of sylvan war- 

 blers to salute him with their vespers. 



