IN MIDSUMMER FIELDS 117 



go to some country town where flowers are loved, and 

 look for trumpet creepers on every woodshed roof. Neg- 

 lected and forgotten shacks are bowers of green, and 

 above them wave the luxuriant bunches of blossoms of 

 the trumpet vine. 



The cobaea and Dutchman's pipe, as well as the scarlet 

 runner, put out flowers in July, and then it is well to 

 take note of those one would like to call his own, a vine 

 to wreathe an unsightly window to make it a joy to the 

 eyes, an awkward corner that would gain by a clematis 

 trellis, or a sunny side to a porch which might become in- 

 viting if screened by a thrifty vine. 



In the calendar of the wild-flower lover, April is the 

 month of snowdrops and the frail Easter flowers, May 

 puts on a touch of color in winking Marybuds, cowslips, 

 and apple bloom, and June roses have stirred many a poet 

 to song, while the air is heavy with grape blossoms and 

 syringas and drying rose leaves. 



After the flowers of early spring have gone their ways 

 the July hedgerows adorn themselves in traveler's joy 

 and broideries of color most enchanting. The meadows 

 have put off their paler green to don tints rich in sugges- 

 tions of bronze and reds from the ripened flowers of the 

 grass. Here and there in the lush places, where a spring 

 bubbles up or a bit of bog remains from days of long ago, 

 a patch of Turk's-cap lilies flaunt their scarlet, or a royal 

 iris holds up its banners. 



