IN MIDSUMMER FIELDS 119 



which rise with the aspiring lines of the great candles be- 

 fore an altar. Here and there and everywhere creeps the 

 camomile, starred with its yellow-centered daisies. 

 Among it the smartwood has taken root and, feeling the 

 impulse of summer, has hung out a rose-tipped and grace- 

 ful plume of prince's-feather. Near the horseblock live 

 the same little groups of butter and eggs, and the toadflax 

 that keeps its snapdragon flowerets as dainty and velvet- 

 lipped as if sheltered in the garden. 



Along this same roadway are islets of white clover, 

 sending out runners and tracing pretty patterns over what 

 else were barren ground. Just across yonder fence acres 

 of red clover are in bloom, with an army of bumblebees 

 foraging for sweets amid the blossoms. The fragrance 

 comes with every waft of the breeze. Here it was that 

 we hunted for field mice, and here the great owl hovered 

 at night and "came down like a wolf on the fold." 



The "Marsh," as it is called, was the favored abiding 

 place of many flowers in June. Now in the distance the 

 scarlet of lilies can be seen. The white patch, with yel- 

 low at the edges, is the yarrow bed, and where the hill- 

 side rises to a drier stratum the pink and white boneset is 

 in view. In the moister places the asclepias and butterfly 

 weeds flourish to their heart's content. There are more 

 of them to-day than twenty years ago, when a child 

 wandered among them. 



The yellow sneezeweed grew on the dry upland a 



