THE PROCESSION OF THE FLOWERS 43 
hide itself ; and certainly no shrub suggests, 
when found, more tropical associations. Those 
great, nodding, airy, fragrant clusters, tossing 
far above one’s head their slender cups of 
honey, seem scarcely to belong to our sober 
zone, any more than the scarlet tanager which 
sometimes builds its nest beside them. They 
appear bright exotics, which have wandered 
into our woods, and are too happy to feel any 
wish for exit. And just as they fade, their 
humble sister in white begins to bloom, and 
carries on through the summer the same intox- 
icating fragrance. 
But when June isat its height, the sculptured 
chalices of the Mountain Laurel begin to unfold, 
and thenceforward, for more than a month, ex- 
tends the reign of this our woodland queen. I 
know not why one should sigh after the blossom- 
ing gorges of the Himalaya, when our forests 
are all so crowded with this glowing magnifi- 
cence, — rounding the tangled swamps into 
smoothness, lighting up the underwoods, over- 
topping the pastures, lining the rural lanes, and 
rearing its great, pinkish masses till they meet 
overhead. The color ranges from the purest 
white to a perfect rose-pink, and there is an in- 
exhaustible vegetable vigor about the whole 
thing which puts to shame those tenderer shrubs 
that shrink before the progress of cultivation. 
