Treasures of Aromatic Literature-Scent of Rain by Various

"Here we'll find the rainbow key — on this side the bridge, in the keeping of the Border Saints or Wizards," said I; for the hills and lowlands that rolled away to the making of Scotland had a colour as if stained with the fadeless, dried rainbows of centuries. Mingled with peat was the tea-rose scent of summer rain and of running water, which is as the fragrance of fresh-cut melons. Clouds like huge white brooms swept the sky, and surging suddenly round us was a wave of sheep, charming, reserved, Scottish sheep with ears of a different shape from the English kind, like those of exaggerated rabbits. They looked at us with horizontal eyes of pale brass cut across with narrow slits of jet, and their thick wool, wet with rain, sparkled as if encrusted with diamond dust. With them was a collie, much collie-er than English collies, with a pawky Scottish smile. Not that I know what pawky means, but it seems a word I ought to use at once, now we are on Scottish soil.
The heather moon
By Charles Norris Williamson, Alice Muriel Williamson

No gallery of art, indeed, can compare with the scenes which we can obtain in the external world from the Scenery of the Seasons. It is now a May noon, with a grey sky and a fresh wind breathing through the greening trees and over breadths of sprouting wheat. Now and then a dewy ray falls on the old bridge spanning the blue river in the spring valley, where the cressesand large-leaved water plants grow fresh by the banks and beneath the arch—which frames in a picture of the upland meadows, with their farms and hedges, and of the far mountains, touched with disentangling cloud. We sec under the strong sun the wet roads of early May winding through the landscape. A scent of wild celery floats on the damp wind; "a scent of rain comes up the blue-hilled south." The white-domed palaces of pure spring vapours are in the sky, and the meadows are full of flowers; knots of violets, and families of daisies.
The Monitor, Volume 1

The crashing thunder that had seemed like an avalanche of boulders shattered and flung earthward by the fury of the storm, began to spend itself, and close following on the peals and flashes came the damp earth-scent of rain-wetted dust as the big drops came down. By and by the thunder died away in distant grumbling, and the fiery zigzags went out. There was the sound of splashing hoofs pounding along the road; and the warm, wet smell of horses' steaming hides blown back by the night wind.
The Arena, Volume 21

Outside, not even to be gainsaid by Sixth Avenue, the night was like a moist flower held to the face. A spring shower, hardly fallen, was already drying on the sidewalks, and from the patch of Bryant Park across the maze of car-tracks there stole the immemorial scent of rain-water and black earth, a just-set-out crescent of hyacinths giving off their light steam of fragrance. How insidious is an old scent! It can creep into the heart like an ache. Who has not loved beside thyme or at the sweetness of dusk? Dear, silenced laughs can come back on a whiff from a florist's shop. Oh, there is a nostalgia lurks in old scents!
Gaslight sonatas
By Fannie Hurst

There is the smell of sage at sundown, burning sage from campoodies and sheep camps, that travels on the thin blue wraiths of smoke; the kind of smell that gets into the hair and garments, is not much liked except upon long acquaintance, and every Paiute and shepherd smells of it indubitably. There is the palpable smell of the bitter dust that comes up from the alkali flats at the end of the dry seasons, and the smell of rain from the wide-mouthed canons. And last the smell of the salt grass country, which is the beginning of other things that are the end of the mesa trail.
The Land of Little Rain, by Mary Austin

Then rain, and after, moonshine cold and fair,
And scent of earth, sweet with the evening rain,
And slow soft speech beneath the rain-washed trees,
Ah, that such things should never come again!
All Round the Year, by
Edith Nesbit and Saretta Nesbit

In a few minutes more they had passed the ticket collector, and found themselves on the leafy high road. It seemed as different from London as a fairy tale from a Latin grammar. There had been a slight shower of rain, which had brought out the scent of growing grass and budding leaves; the ground was white with the fallen blossom of blackthorn hedges; and a thrush, seated on the summit of an apple tree, was pouring forth a volume of song that sounded almost like a welcome to the country.
The Manor House School, by Angela Brazil

The rain of winter is raw, without odour, and dismal. The rain of spring is brisk, fragrant, charged with life-giving warmth. I welcome it delightedly as it visits the earth, enriches the streams, waters the hills abundantly, makes the furrows soft with showers for the seed, elicits a perfume which I cannot breathe deep enough. Spring rain is beautiful, impartial, lovable. With pearly drops it washes every leaf on tree and bush, ministers equally to salutary herbs and noxious growths, searches out every living thing that needs its beneficence.
The World I Live In, by Helen Keller

THE smell of rain-wet earth upon the air,
And rose leaves, wet and flashing:
The fragrance floats me back, all unaware,—
I see that love-white face divinely fair
Again—and drooping head with braided hair—
Half know the fountain plashing,
The smell of rain-wet earth upon the air,
And rose leaves wet and flashing.
Wind-harp songs
By John William Lloyd