't^t &CKI of i^t S^CKXi^ 



And how erect and unblushing ! The pointed 

 spireas, the sumacs, the thistles, this crowd along 

 the river, this red wood-lily, even the tall swaying 

 spray of meadow-rue ! Slender, dainty, airy, the 

 meadow-rue falls just short of grace and delicacy. 

 It feels the season's pride of life. It is angled, rigid, 

 rank. Were there the slightest bend to its branches, 

 the merest suggestion of soul to the plant, then, 

 from root to spreading panicles, there had been more 

 grace, more misty, penciled delicacy wrought into 

 the tall meadow-rue than into any flower-form of 

 my summer. 



But the suggestion of soul in the meadow-rue, as 

 in the whole face of nature, is lost in flesh. It is the 

 body, not the spirit, that is now present. She is well 

 fed, well clothed, opulent, mature. She is conven- 

 tional, — as conventional as a single, stiff spire of the 

 steeple-bush, — turned to such a pointed nicety as to 

 seem done by machine. 



And yet the steeple-bush rarely grows as single 

 spires, but by the meadow-full. We rarely see a single 

 spire. We never gather summer flowers one by one, 

 as we gather the arbutus and hepatica of spring. 

 Life has lost its individuality. It is all massed, 



154 



