east, but comes not out west (shame on 
the aristocracy of this sweet prisoner of 
humility); and the dumb fox-glove is a resident 
only in limited quarters; but golden-rod is a beautiful 
democrat, and comes wherever we are, and makes 
glad at our door, and kindles its wonderment of color 
to the whole continent's delight. Golden-rod is the 
common folk’s flower, like the hollyhock and old- 
fashioned roses and almost forgotten four o'clocks. 
There is rare grace in a frond of the golden-rod. 
Did you ever notice that? Did you ever see a 
gawky golden-rod? | never have. Its spike of 
flowers leaning a little in half bashfulness, though 
standing so tall and stately,—this pose is itself a 
picture. I do wonder if these smiling lovelinesses 
are sitting for their pictures? I will not believe 
so, for | think them too frank by odds to be 
dramatic. But if you care to sketch the golden- 
rod, hit or miss, you will be impressed by the 
continuity of gracefulness. What glorious 
golden-rod I have gathered in Connecticut, near 
beautiful Canaan, where the hills are sponges which 
squeeze out springs and rivulets and rushing streams, 
and where ai night you can hear the dim calling of 
the waterfalls through the cloudy darkness where 
the stream tumbles down a bank in its hurry to reach 
the Housatonic; and what torches have I seen and 
gathered in the White Mountains in sight of Mount 
Washington! I do believe that had I carried them 
in the dark for a torch they would have lit the way 
like a flaming pine knot; but they have lit my 
