GHOSTS OF THE NORTHEASTER 189 



has he since lost them altogether in crossing the 

 storm-tossed Atlantic to our shores. Instead the 

 rich vigor of the brine subtends them and bears 

 them, tanged with salt, to our deeper delectation. 

 In long carriage they have lost potency, one needs 

 keen scent to find them, but all the subtle essence 

 of dreams is in them still, and as the rain brings 

 down early twilight you know that the prince 

 saw true. 



So likely is this storm to come to us in mid- 

 August that the Old Farmer's Almanack, less 

 oracularly and more bluntly by far than in 

 its usual weather predictions, bids us look 

 for it each year. Not only does its yearly re- 

 currence make it a landmark of the passing of 

 seasons, but the cold northwest breeze which al- 

 most invariably follows it, sucked in from Sas- 

 katchewan, breathing of snow flurries on the 

 frost-touched tundra of the Arctic barrens, car- 

 ries a threat of winter that all the world knows. 

 The summer is over, it says to outdoor creatures, 

 and it is time to put in fall storeis. It is time to 

 hurry all plans that need warm weather for their 

 completion. Particularly do the late summer 

 and early autumn blooming plants heed this. 

 Monday saw my favorite meadow dallying still 



