VII 
SUMMER IN THE MOUNTAINS 
AFTER the reckless profusion of spring, what is 
left for summer in the matter of flowers? 
There is indeed nothing to match the early display, 
yet the summer is not flowerless, and it has a beauty 
of its own in the fruitage that overwhelms one for a 
time. 
One notices how vines are everywhere twining 
and climbing, — festooning the trees, overlaying 
the bushes, tying the tall weeds together, clematis 
here, woodbine there, smilax, trumpet-vine, so many 
vetches, so many pretty vines whose names one does 
not know, — how they cling and climb and riot in 
luxuriant life! Everywhere along the ravines the 
forest trees are hung with the strong cables of the 
grapevine, whose foliage mingles inextricably with 
that of the tree it mantles, and whose delicious 
fragrance loads the air about the time the little 
white urns of the persimmon tree fall to the ground 
brimmed with delicate perfume. 
We find six kinds of morning-glories choking up 
our vegetable garden in August. We have given up 
all hope of vegetables, but we go out in the morning 
to rejoice in the glory of the usurper. Those vines 
with star-shaped leaves that run over garden and 
fields, fairly carpeting the earth in places, are pas- 
