reaches crescendo in blossom time when, indeed, I like it least, for being too strong.  It has a curious fragrance, once well called by a poet “the hot scent of the brier,” and aromatically hot it is and sharp like the briers themselves.  At times I do not like it at all, for it gives me a kind of faintness, while at other times, as to-day, it fills me with a strange sense of pleasure as though it were the very breath of the spicy earth.  It is also a rare friend of the sun, for the hotter and brighter the day, the hotter and sharper the scent of the brier.

Many of the commonest and least noticed of plants, flowers, trees, possess a truly fragrant personality if once we begin to know them.  I had an adventure in my own orchard, only this spring, and made a fine new acquaintance in a quarter least of all expected.  I had started down the lane through the garden one morning in the most ordinary way, with no thought of any special experience, when I suddenly caught a whiff of pure delight that stopped me short.

“What now can that be?” and I thought to myself that nature had played some new prank on me.

I turned into the orchard, following my nose.  It was not the peach buds, nor the plums, nor the cherries, nor yet the beautiful new coloured leaves of the grape, nor anything I could see along the grassy margin of the pasture.  There were other odours all about, old friends of mine, but this was some shy and pleasing stranger come venturing upon my land.

A moment later I discovered a patch of low green verdure upon the ground, and dismissed it scornfully as one of my ancient enemies.  But it is this way with enemies, once we come to know them, they often turn out to have a fragrance that is kindly.

Well, this particular fierce enemy was a patch of chickweed.  Chickweed!  Invader of the garden, cossack of the orchard!  I discovered, however, that it was in full bloom and covered with small, star-like white blossoms.

“Well, now,” said I, “are you the guilty rascal?”

So I knelt there and took my delight of it and a rare, delicate good odour it was.  For several days afterward I would not dig out the patch, for I said to myself, “What a cheerful claim it makes these early days, when most of the earth is still cold and dead, for a bit of immortality.”

The bees knew the secret already, and the hens and the blackbirds!  And I thought it no loss, but really a new and valuable pleasure, to divert my path down the lane for several days that I might enjoy more fully this new odour, and make a clear acquaintance with something fine upon the earth I had not known before.

CHAPTER II

OF GOOD AND EVIL ODOURS