Who knows not Silver-rod, the lovely and reverend Golden-rod
beautified and sainted, looking moonlit and misty even in the
sunshine! In this soft canescent afterbloom beginning at the apex of
the flower cluster and gradually spreading downward, the eye finds
an agreeable relief from the recent dazzle of yellow splendour. I
almost forget that the herb is not literally in bloom, that is, no
longer ministered to by sunshine and dew. Is there not, perhaps, some
kind of bee that loves to work among these plumy blossoms gathering a
concentrated form of nectar, pulverulent _flower_ of honey? I gently
stir this tufted staff, and away floats a little cloud of pappus, in
which I recognize the golden-and silver-rods of another year, if the
feathery seeds shall find hospitable lodgment in the earth. Two other
plants in the wild herbarium deserve to be ranked with my
subject for grace and dignity with which they wear their seedy
fortunes: iron-weed, with its pretty daisy-shaped involucres;
and life-everlasting, which, having provided its own cerements
and spices, now rests embalmed in all the pastures; it is still
pleasantly odorous, and, as often as I meet it, puts me in mind of
an old-fashioned verse which speaks of the “actions of the just” and
their lasting bloom and sweetness. On a chill November day I fancy
that the air is a little softer in places where Silver-rod holds
sway and that there spirits of peace and patience have their special
haunts.
* * * * *
A white butterfly met a thistle-ball in the airy highway. Expressions
of mutual surprise were exchanged.
“Hello! I thought you were one of us,” said the butterfly.
“And I,” returned the thistle-ball, “took you for a white
pea-blossom.”