My First Summer 



while we sleep away the dark half of the 

 year dreaming of spring. 



Ever since I was allowed entrance into 

 these mountains I have been looking for 

 cassiope, said to be the most beautiful and 

 best loved of the heathworts, but, strange to 

 say, I have not yet found it. On my high 

 mountain walks I keep muttering, " Cas- 

 siope, cassiope." This name, as Calvinists 

 say, is driven in upon me, notwithstanding 

 the glorious host of plants that come about 

 me uncalled as soon as I show myself. Cas- 

 siope seems the highest name of all the 

 small mountain-heath people, and as if con- 

 scious of her worth, keeps out of my way. 

 I must find her soon, if at all this year. 



September 4. --All the vast sky dome is 

 clear, filled only with mellow Indian sum- 

 mer light. The pine and hemlock and fir 

 cones are nearly ripe and are falling fast 

 from morning to night, cut ofF and gath- 

 ered by the busy squirrels. Almost all the 

 plants have matured their seeds, their sum- 

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