A VALLEY ISLAND. 



A. A. FIELD. 



" Ah, wilderness were paradise enow." 



— Omar Khayyam. 



Did old Omar sing thus of Nature in a 

 spirit of world weariness or in the enthu- 

 siasm of the "fire of spring?" And were 

 his glowing words, written "underneath the 

 bough," where "many a garden by the water 

 grows," but the inspiration of the "old fa- 

 miliar juice?" I think not; for to many a 

 child of Nature, "sans wine, sans .singer," 

 a crimson lily blooming in the field, a bird 

 singing in the tree, a butterfly dancing in 

 the gold of the sunlight, were "paradise 

 enow." 



We look over our calendar, Romance 

 and I, and find the days so thickly dotted 

 with notes of floral events that to particu- 

 larize is impossible, but we decipher swamp 

 rose signals as a matter of such possible 

 present advent that we hurry to visit that 

 valley paradise. The day is fitted to the 

 quest, so grandly beams upon us that 

 "great inverted bowl they call the sky," 

 across which are drifting stray bits of 

 white fleece, like fragments of fairy lace 

 torn from the rose draperies of a summer 

 sunset. 



Down in the valley the social and eco- 

 nomic problems of life fret us not at all. 

 We cross the little brook, on a rolling log 

 placed there by a hand that is far more 

 friendly than the log itself, which does not 

 hesitate to dump us ignominiously in the 

 muddy creek. We push our way meekly 

 through the willows up on to a little is- 

 land elevation, and the splendor of the Val- 

 ley Queen bursts on our adoring eyes. 

 Ah, the winter was long, the snow deep, 

 and bitter was the wind, but our reward is 

 here. No other bloom in the valley 

 can compare with the splendor of this 

 flower. The swamp rose, R. Carolina, is 

 rare. The whole valley produces but 2 or 

 3 of its species ; yet these plants all seem 

 rugged and hardy, and are of luxuriant 

 growth. The flower clusters are large, one 

 stalk often producing 30 or 40 blossoms. 

 It has much forethought for its devotees, 

 not opening all its glory at once, but 

 blooming at least 2 weeks, a dream of 

 beauty. The flower is large, and on one 

 bush are a rich rose pink in color. There 

 is but a single row of leaves around the 

 corolla, the stamens of which are unusually 

 luxuriant in their rich gold. Its free 

 blooming qualities recommend it to Ro- 

 mance and me. We do not follow the ad- 

 vice of Emerson, who 



" Loved the wood rose and left it on its stalk.'' 



We love it, but we go home laden with its 



great fragrant clusters, which need much 

 delicate attention. Our cut branches usu- 

 ally spend the nights with their dainty 

 heads submerged in the bath tub, that they 

 may appear in their regal valley splendor. 



Within a few feet of our carmine rose, 

 blooms another of the same species, but 

 bearing beautiful transparent white blos- 

 soms, with hardly a touch of red save in 

 the unopened buds. There is never a rose 

 without a thorn, and our swamp rose is 

 amply protected. 



This little island may be unproductive 

 from an agricultural point of view, but to 

 the naturalist land botanist it is a mine of 

 treasure. It is surrounded by a willow 

 creek that encircles it like a frame. Ro- 

 mance and I feel isolated from the world, 

 of which we can see nothing but the great 

 viaduct in the distance. Just beyond our 

 dual epieens is a great sweetbri'ar, whose 

 dainty blossoms toss about in the summer 

 air. This is a veritable rose garden, for 

 here, too, we find the wild rose, blooming 

 in helpless little clusters at every turn. 

 Over the heads of the great purple painted 

 thistles dances a yellow tiger, Papilio tur- 

 nus, so gorgeous in clothing and aristo- 

 cratic in his swallow-tail coat and breadth 

 of wing ; and a mourning cloak, Vanessa 

 antiopa, displays his elegant black in the 

 sunshine. Above us in a sturdy oak, and 

 almost drowned out by the zee-zee-zee of a 

 cicada, we hear a dismal little pewee, pa- 

 thetically bemoaning the bitterness of his 

 lot, or, at least, so sounds his plaintive 

 pe-a-wee, pe-'a-wee, to us. However, the 

 sly little shade-loving fellow is probably in 

 reality a cheerful, contented little body, and 

 could we but interpret his moan aright, it 

 would tell us a tale of great cheer. 



Romance and I pass on into the willow 

 line, leaving our roses to be harvested la- 

 ter, and are at the entrance greeted by that 

 disagreeable member of the Arum family, 

 the swamp or skunk cabbage, which must 

 have been lately "riled up by some pass- 

 ing cow. Were the skunk cabbage a less 

 obnoxious growth, its early rising would 

 be a most commendable habit, for, coming 

 to the valley 'as early as the nth of Febru- 

 ary, Romance and I have found this brave 

 harbinger of spring pushing its chilly wav 

 through the soft loam of the swamp. The 

 inconspicuous, lumpy flower is hidden 

 carefully by its shell-like spathe, and makes 

 its appearance some time in 'advance of the 

 great heart shaped leaves whose growth is 

 so luxuriant and whose odor is so obnox- 

 ious. I have never been able to determine 



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