THE WILD GARDEN. 173 
and again in his “ November”: 
“The blue gentian’s flower that in the breeze 
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.” 
I have sincerely tried to verify these specific statements—all 
but the “nod”—and must admit without success; but then per- 
haps I have not yet happened to find that particular sunny slope 
of Parnassus which the poet discovered all by himself. No, the 
truth must be met though Pegasus foam and cavort with incense, 
that of all her train the first flower that is planted in the watery 
mould by the hands of Spring is the skunk-cabbage, and the 
bees know it and gather sweets from it even though the poets 
do not. The swamp-cabbage flower literally breaks the ice in 
the reconciliation of the warring forces of Boreas and Pheoebus. 
But if the too fastidious must needs rule out this plebeian of the 
bog simply because he does not appear to advantage in a button- | 
hole, what then? What a brood of wood blooms stand ready to 
look down on him as they usurp his place! The incomparable 
arbutus, darling of the mould; the airy rue-anemone; the wind- 
flower, with its white saucers or pink drooping bells; the rock- 
flower—a tiny white Jdowtonniére in itself; the liverwort; the 
downy dwarf everlasting; the bloodroot, with ruddy pulse; the 
squirrel-corn, redolent of hyacinth; the colt’sfoot, with its ginger 
roots, and the pale spring beauty, to say nothing of the whitlow- 
flower and dandelion. Which one shall wear the stolen pennant? 
What change of heart has now come over our beloved poet of 
the violet? What is the testimony of his later years in his 
“Winter Piece” as he seeks for the first heralds of spring? 
“Lodged in a sunny cleft 
Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone 
The little zzndlower, whose just opened eye 
Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at— 
Startling the loiterer in the naked groves 
With unexpected beauty, for the time 
Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar.” 
