A MIDNIGHT RAMBLE. 27 
of its chalice, and caught the enticing fragrance of its earliest 
breath —who that has known these can deny the spell of its 
sweet consciousness? It is a rash hand that will pluck the prim- 
rose in the twilight. How well Keats knew its impulsive ways !— 
“A tuft of evening primroses, 
O’er which the wind may hover till it dozes, 
O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, 
But that ’tis ever startled by the leap 
Of buds into ripe flowers.” 
I recall also the beautiful lines of Emerson to his recluse Rho- 
dora, and which are equally applicable to the twilight primrose: 
“Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted’ on the marsh and sky, 
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being.” 
But such counsel would be wasted on both flowers. I am sure 
the evening primrose would carry no such message to the sages; 
for whatever of sweet vanity she may or might possess, hers is 
a deeper consciousness. 
The flower that blooms by night, moreover, could hardly be 
suspected of vanity. Our evening primrose does not bloom in 
the dark hours for mere sentiment or moonshine, but from a mo- 
tive which lies much nearer her heart. “Often when the nights 
are very dark,” says an old writer, “her petals emit a mild phos-! 
phoric light, and look as if illuminated for a holiday. And he 
who does not fear to be out in her wild and lonely haunt may 
see a variety of nocturnal ephemere hovering around the lighted , 
petals, or sipping at the flowery fountains, while others rest among 
the branches or hurry up the stems as if fearing to be too late.”* 
From the first moment of her wooing welcome our evening 
primrose listens for murmuring wings, and awaits that supreme ‘ 
fulfilment anticipated from her infant bud. For it will almost 
pling WAN Re aver Ger co an Mas ol? 
