1^2 /A r SUMMER. 



every shade of freshest green and starred with 

 a hundred tints, roseate, golden, and white, call 

 for an infinite power of contemplation, and leave 

 the wanderer dazed. 



Shutting my eyes to the wealth of bloom 

 about me, closing my ears to the melody of every 

 nesting bird, I start upon the doubtful quest of 

 the commonplace, hoping to chance upon some 

 neglected spot, that happily generous June has 

 overlooked. 



As has happened so frequently before, where 

 I least expected it, there stood the object of my 

 search a gem in a setting not so elaborate that 

 its beauties were obscured. In a long-neglected 

 pasture, a wide meadow torn by freshets, foul 

 with noisome weeds, and strown with the wreck- 

 age left by winter's storms, grew many a grace- 

 ful vine that few have heeded ; for it is not enough 

 that the botanist should long ago have named 

 it and that others should have besmirched its 

 proper fame by calling it " carrion-flower." Can 

 we not forgive the offense to the nostril, when the 

 eye is captivated ? Does it go for nothing that a 

 plant beautifies the waste places and invites you 

 to contemplate it as the acme of grace, because 

 m self-defense it warns you to keep at a respect- 

 ful distance ? 



Sitting in the pleasant shade of clustering 

 thorns, I see nothing now that attracts me more 



