e of such
daring hues, may call the Asters 'stiff and prudish' in their quilled
muslins; but, what say the Asters in return? Ah! what do they _not_ say?

The Verbenas seem fairly delirious this morning, as though the
consciousness of their own beauty made them run wildly from their beds
into the paths, to say to the passers-by, with their bright little
faces:

'See! am I not charming?'

Well, you _are_ pretty--_very_ pretty; but I care not for you as for
your plainer stepsister, the 'sweet-scented Verbena.' She has a pale,
sad face; but she has a _soul_, which you have not, poor things! for
perfume is the soul of 'flower people.'

But, who wants gold? Lives there a man with purse so full who does _not_
want it? Well, then, snatch that heap of sunshine, that dazzling
Coreopsis, and be off before the policeman turns into this path. Ah, ye
Daylilies! You break my heart with your moonlight faces. Standing apart
from the world-flowers, like novices in their white veils, who offer the
incense of their beauty to Heaven--oh! give a little of your perfume to
a poor un-otto-of-rosed mortal--breathe on me, and I can laugh at the
costly 'Wood Violet,' 'Eglantine,' and 'Rose,' with which Harris &
Chapman scent their patronesses--to be dollared in return!

Daylilies, your perfume is too subtle, too vague, to be coined or
'cabined, cribbed, confined' in scent bottles.

Ah! the flowering Mosses; they seem to be having one eternal picnic with
the Myrtles and Verbenas, playing forever that dear-to-children game of
'Tag'! Some are arrayed in Solferino velvets, rather heavy for this warm
day! Prettier these, in soft rose-colored robes, and this, in a

'Oh! call me fair, not pale'--

well, _almost_ pale robe, the very climax of delicacy: the faintest
thought of rose color alone prevents one from calling it lily-white. I
am reminded of you, O flower-named friend! Vision of loveliness! which
has in a few never-to-be-forgotten days oasised my Sahara life. Now I
have reached the pond--_my_ Lake George! It is fresh and breezy this
morning, after last night's thunder-shower, and the mimic waves are
impatiently breaking over the thus-far-shalt-thou-go stone. I cannot
blame them for rushing over that green sward to give a morning kiss to
the blushing 'Forget-me-nots,' and just say to them, 'Remember _me_!'

Yes; I have a few crumbs of time left to sit in the rustic arbor and
give one lingering look behind, that I may carry a picture wi