NIGHT WITCHERY. 47 
of sound which seems independent of your reason—a slight aug- 
mented rustle among the wind-stirred leaves! the creaking of 
a limb! the soft burst of applause among the aspen leaves! a 
capricious patter of falling dew from the tree-tops, a snap of twig 
not precisely timed to your footfall, or a few inches too far re- 
moved therefrom; a falling object from the tree—an acorn, per- 
haps, were it not that for an inanimate thing it has rolled a foot 
too far upon the leaves! What events! 
And so with your nose: you see with it. Now, if never be- 
fore, it warrants its conspicuous position in your physiognomy, 
and becomes a member of utility as well as a luxurious ornament. 
In these midnight woods you follow your nose like a hound. It, 
pilots the senses. Could this eclipsed eye ever have pictured 
more vividly the pungent copse of spice-wood through which you 
have just pressed, or that drooping branch of aromatic hickory 
which touched your shoulder, or that plume of tansy that now 
brushes against your elbow? Does our midnight poet affirm, 
“T cannot see what flowers are at my feet?” 
And why not, pray? This mint at your foot—is it spearmint, or 
peppermint, or horsemint, or pennyroyal? Your nose will tell 
you ata glance. The texture of the vaporous vault of the still 
midnight woods seems to the hungry, desperate eye marbled or 
party-colored with floating incense of odors. 
“Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find 
The perfumes thou dost bring? 
* * * * * 
O’er the pale blossoms of the sassafras \ 
And o’er the spice-bush spray, 
Among the opening buds thy breathings pass, » 
And come embalmed away.” 
You may sit in the ambrosial current upon some jutting rock or 
log, and take your fragrant quaffs as they glide by, each in its 
season—a whiff of arbutus, perhaps? how pink it smells! or an 
