FROM CONCORD TO SYRIA
hills. On the waysides, in the fields, on the high ridges, in the pine forests, over terraces and under grapevines, it grows and glories in its abundance—and its pungent generosity. Ah, how it fans and flatters the thistle; how it nestles round the lilies of the valley; how it sprawls beneath the grapevines; how it waves its pennant of self-satisfaction on yonder height! Here, beneath an oak or a pine, it stands erect in its arrogance; there, it is bending over the humble crocus, or sheltering the delicate and graceful cyclamen.
Walt Whitman is the elecampane in the field of poetry.
The furze, on the other hand, is the idol of your heaths and copses. This plant, of course, is not without its thorn. But its smooth and tender stem, its frail and fra- grant yellow blossoms,—those soft, wee shells of amber,—the profusion and the symmetry of its bushes, the delicacy of its tone of mystery, all tend to emphasize its attractive and inviting charms. A furze bush in full bloom is the crowning glory
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