Treasures of Aromatic Literature- Scent of Pine by Various


Morning in a Pine Forest
BALM OF PINE

Woods moonlit on a sultry night,
And the world wrapped up in the ghostly light,
And sweet night fragrance,— all of it mine
In the glorious balm of the flowering pine!

Sounds, mystic through the lingering eve,
And a twilight fled away that the nights deceive,
And all through the glades the even-shine,
Mixed with the balm of the flowering pine!

God's sweet gift of a wondrous night!
The gentle air wears a robe of light;
For the soul and the life of me are a-glow
With that sweet, sad scent that the pine trees
know.

Hills, clad white with the sheen of the moon,
And the call of the dark in the call of the loon,
And all of the fragrance of the night is mine
In the lingering scent of the flowering pine!
Moods, mystical and otherwise
By Anne Vyne Tillery

As they climbed the hill that led to the wood the scent of the pines stole down to them in little fragrant whiffs. At the top of the hill it greeted them with a great generous rush of fragrance.

"Oh, you dear pines, you never stint one! You are always eager to give all your scented freshness." She turned smiling eyes on him. "I think I shall set up as a pine doctor," she said; "I shall have a hydro — a pinehydro — in the very middle of a great pine wood, and all the patients who come to me, tired, nerve-ridden, weary, listless, I 'll send off to my hydro, to live in the scent of the pines; not just to go out and walk in it, as they do at Bournemouth, and places like that, but to have it always — all day and all night too — to be always drinking it in. There should be no treatment; just a rational, healthy system, and always the scent of the pines surrounding the patients. Of course people say they are sad," her eyes looked out wistfully into the darkness of the pines, "but it is a soft sadness — a restful sadness — and their scent is n't sad! Oh, it's a glorious scent!"
Helen Alliston
By Margaret Westrup

The breeze whispered in the pines overhead, an unseen brook kept up a clear tinkling and murmuring, and now and again bushes rustled, stones slipped and struck together, a dead tree cracked, or two leaning pines creaked in unison. The air was sharp with snow, and the heavy scent of pine and spruce clung to the nostrils. Overhead the stars were coming out in the grey sky, and under the trees the red camp-fire leaped and danced, throwing sparks high into the dusk.
HERMIT HAG AN

By R. C. PITZER.

Up, up ! still up! across the little sparkling runlets, tumbling head over heels in their hurry to see what sort of a world the valley below might be ;—up ! over masses of rock, ankle-deep in rich brown moss, bejewelled with strawberries and cowberries, garlanded with raspberries, twisting and straggling out of their crevices, covered with rich ripe fruit;—up! over bits of open turf, green as emeralds, set in pure white gravel, sparkling like a thousand diamonds;—up! through tangled masses of fallen pines, their bleaching stumps standing out like the masts of great wrecks—terrible marks of the course of the avalanche wind !— up! through one short bit more of pine-wood, over the split fir fence, and into the little mountain meadow, smiling in the level sunlight, with its bright stream tinkling merrily through it, its scattered boulders, and wooden sennhutt, with the cows and goats clustered round it, standing ready to be milked—one of the latter, by the bye, instantly charges me, and has to be repelled by my alpenstock, bayonet fashion—while all around, the sweet breath of the cows mingles deliciously with the aromatic fragrance of the pine forest, and the rich scent of the black orchis and wild thyme.
From Fraser'a Magazine. CHAMOIS HUNTING.

At a distance there was a roar of wind through the forest; close at hand only a soft breeze. Rustling of twigs caused me to compose myself to listen and watch. Soon small gray squirrels came into view all around me, bright-eyed and saucy, very curious about this intruder. They began to chatter. Other squirrels were working in the tops of trees, for I heard the fall of pine cones. Then came the screech of blue jays. Soon they too discovered me. The male birds were superb, dignified, beautiful. The color was light blue all over with dark blue head and tufted crest. By and bye they ceased to scold me, and I was left to listen to the wind, and to the tiny patter of dropping seeds and needles from the spruces. What cool, sweet, fresh smell this woody, leafy, earthy, dry, grassy, odorous fragrance, dominated by scent of pine! How lonesome and restful! I felt a sense of deep peace and rest. This goldengreen forest, barred with sunlight, canopied by the blue sky, and melodious with its soughing moan of wind, absolutely filled me with content and happiness.
Tales of lonely trails
By Zane Grey

Perhaps it is the salt air which brings out their fragrance, but certainly they seem to give a sweeter and more aromatic scent than their mightier and more prosperous brethren of inland wood and mountain.
And now as we turn southward, and the wind blows in our faces, tell me did you ever on the coast, or—
"Under hanging mountains *
Beside the fall of fountains,"
breathe such an air?
This southern wind has come direct from the West Indies via the Gulf Stream. In its way over the sea it has dropped its tropic languor, and kept all its sweetness; and since it has reached the island it has gathered into its saltness the breath of sweet-fern just unfolding, the odor of the bayberry and sweet grass, and the scent of the pines.
You breathe as you never breathed before, and you can allow yourself to forget that you are breathing, and discover that there is a pleasure merely in existing. Here, among these little pines, or farther southward on the sunny plain, I have been content to sit for hours, with no other shade than my parasol, content to do nothing and think of nothing, as satisfied as a cat basking on a cellar-door. You find yourself uttering those little inarticulate sounds which are humanity's poor substitute for purring. You are content to be, and forget that you have any thing
to do or suffer.
Appletons' journal, Volume 11

A rising southeast wind not only hid the stars under banks of clouds, but went whistling eerily round the corners of the lumber-piles. The scent of pine, and all the pungent, nameless odors of the riverside, began to be infused with the smell—if it is a smell—of coming rain. I can best describe myself as in a kind of trance in which past and present were merged into one, and in which there seemed to be no period when two wonderful, burning eyes had not been watching me in pity and amazement. As long as I lived I knew they would watch me still. In their light I got my life's significance. In their light I saw myself as a boy again, with a boy's vision of the future. The smell of lumber carried me back to our old summer home on the banks of the Ottawa, where I had had my dreams of what I should do when I was big.
The city of comrades
By Basil King

Here one feels the full force of the Spanish wind, which, by the way, is sweetest in the morning. Full of the resinous scent of pines and cooled by the glaciers, it falls on the face like a delicious caress. This delectable balm of the mountains makes one almost shiver with delight. There is in its fragrance such suggestions of mystery and romance!
The Speaker, Volume 18

No traveler will be surprised at this experience, sudden, vivid, incongruous, for odors play such tricks upon us often. In a skylight studio in Bohemia, amid the chatter of an "artist's tea," you settle yourself upon a divan. Suddenly the aroma of a pillow of pine needles whisks you away on a magic carpet to the solemn forests of Maine. In Alaska the fetid air in the bottom of a mine turns you suddenly homesick for the subway—and the bright lights of New York. In Paris you saunter past a perfume shop. At the doorway a fragrance like apple blossoms. Presto!—the orchards are in bloom in Michigan; your life is at the morning, and as you trudge down a country lane you guiltily scribble some verses in a pocket notebook.
Travel, Volumes 28-29
By New York Central and Hudson River Railroad Company. Passenger Dept

THE summer skies over the north woods seem to lift a million miles and hang clear and blue above you. The air, blowing softly across a limitless width of pines and balsams, takes up the fragrance of the forest and throws about you an atmosphere saturated with the tang of resin and the washed freshness of sweet, rare ozone. And when the noon sun is strongly at work it draws from the piles of green sawdust of the big mills and the acres of new-cut lumber the pungent odor of juicy wood, an unforgetable aroma in the memory of men who have lived in it and loved it.
Glory of the pines: a tale of the Ontonagon

More pines—a coppery red on their scaly serpent-like trunks—their foliage dark and saturnine; no birds sing among their branches, but at their feet red bramble-stalks, arching and stunted crimson undergrowthof mapleand glossy arbutus. At every station are great sacrificial altars of split pine-logs, distilling resin; and as we stop to take in fuel I hear the chump and clump of the logs as they are thrown into the fireman's tender. Everywhere rise delicious breathings of aroma from pine-woods, till I begin almost to believe with Bacon and the empirical doetors that "such resinous smells do specially fortify the brain, and recruit the wasted spirits;" all resinous smells, from pitch and turpentine, being peculiarly grateful to me. The fragrance reminds me, too, of the woods about the mountains that wall in Attica; for, by that old trick of the mind, the past seems always to me to have been golden, and the present to be lead: such a strange alchemist is Memory.
All the year round, Volumes 3-4
By Charles Dickens

But here we are, among the pines and cedars; and, oh, the loveliness and grandeur of the stately columns, two hundred feet in height, and straight as an arrow, losing themselves in a crown of misty foliage, while others stand burnt and dead, telling of forest fires. The air is scented with the delicious fragrance of the pines; for the ground is carpeted with the needles and dried cones, and the hot sun draws from them the aroma which we breathe in, feeling that every breath gives health as well as fragrance.
The New England magazine, Volume 3
By Making of America Project, Sarah Orne Jewett, Cairns Collection of American Women Writers

The roadway had been cut through a most beautiful pine forest, and was named Christmas Tree Drive. Every one in the crowd, as we left the station and entered the drive, seemed to be as happy and joyous as a "marriage bell." Laughter, from the great depth of the joyous soul, rang out on the morning air; jokes, full of juice and spice, were heard on all sides; songs, that gave expression of the peace and gladness that filled the heart, made the forest resound with their joyous notes, and youthfulness was apparent on all sides, even in the face of the old men, and of the women growing old. It was a glad morning, as the aroma from the pines, in its all-pervasive flavor, emptied itself upon our olfactory nerves, and the rich, everinvigorating air, freighted with ozone from the mountain tops, sent thrills of renewed health and strength through our bodies, and all would have gone well had it not been for the confusion mentioned above.
Forest and stream, Volume 81
By William A. Bruette