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

Of all times of the day for good odours I think the early morning the
very best, although the evening just after sunset, if the air falls
still and cool, is often as good. Certain qualities or states of the
atmosphere seem to favour the distillation of good odours and I have
known times even at midday when the earth was very wonderful to smell.
There is a curious, fainting fragrance that comes only with sunshine and
still heat. Not long ago I was cutting away a thicket of wild spiraea
which was crowding in upon the cultivated land. It was a hot day and
the leaves wilted quickly, giving off such a penetrating, fainting
fragrance that I let the branches lie where they fell the afternoon
through and came often back to smell of them, for it was a fine thing
thus to discover an odour wholly new to me.

I like also the first wild, sweet smell of new-cut meadow grass, not the
familiar odour of new-mown hay, which comes a little later, and is
worthy of its good report, but the brief, d