en-rod is not much in evidence with us,
for it comes only when summer is on the wane. The other night, however,
on the promenade of the Madison Square Roof Garden, I was delighted to
see it growing all over the oblong dome of the auditorium, in response to
the cry of a homesick cricket which found itself in exile there at the
base of a potted ever green. This lonely insect had no sooner sounded its
winter-boding note than the fond flower began sympathetically to wave and
droop along those tarry slopes, as I have seen it on how many hill-side
pastures! But this may have been only a transitory response to the
cricket, and I cannot promise the visitor to the Roof Garden that he will
find golden-rod there every night. I believe there is always Golden Seal,
but it is the kind that comes in bottles, and not in the gloom of "deep,
cool, moist woods," where Mrs. Creevey describes it as growing, along
with other wildings of such sweet names or quaint as Celandine, and Dwarf
Larkspur, and Squirrel-corn, and Dutchman's breeches, and Pearlwort, and
Wood-sorrel, and Bishop's--cap, and Wintergreen, and Indian-pipe, and
Snowberry, and Adder's-tongue, and Wakerobin, and Dragon-root, and
Adam-and-Eve, and twenty more, which must have got their names from some
fairy of genius. I should say it was a female fairy of genius who called
them so, and that she had her own sex among mortals in mind when she
invented their nomenclature, and was thinking of little girls, and slim,
pretty maids, and happy young wives. The author tells how they all look,
with a fine sense of their charm in her words, but one would know how
they looked from their names; and when you call them over they at
once transplant themselves to the depths of the dells between our
sky-scrapers, and find a brief sojourn in the cavernous excavations
whence other sky-scrapers are to rise.

II.

That night on the Roof Garden, when the cricket's cry flowered the dome
with golden-rod, the tall stems of rye growing among the orchestra sloped
all one way at times, just like the bows of violins, in the half-dollar
gale that always blows over the city at that height. But as one turns
the leaves of Mrs. Creevey's magic book-perhaps one ought to say turns
its petals--the forests and the fields come and make themselves at home
in the city everywhere. By virtue of it I have been more in the country
in a half-hour than if I had lived all June there. When I lift my eyes
from its picture