Petitgrain, Lemon (Citrus limon) essential oil/Italy

Petitgrain, Lemon (Citrus limon) essential oil/Italy

Lemon petitgrain essential oil is pale yellow to greenish yellow liquid displaying a fresh, bitter green, penetrating lemon odor with a rich, sweet, coumarinic, floral undertone

In natural perfumery it is used in fougere, chypre, colognes, floral bouquets(top note, herbaceous bouquets

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Petitgrain, Lemon (Citrus limon)

Petitgrain, Bergamot (Citrus bergamia) essential oil/Italy

Petitgrain, Bergamot (Citrus bergamia) essential oil/Italy

Images of Bergamot tree-flower, fruit, leaves

Bergamot Petitgrain essential oil is a pale yellow to green liquid with a fresh, bitter- sweet, green, citrus-fruity odor with a sweet, floral-woody undertone

In natural perfumery used in chypre, fougere, green notes, fruit accords,, cologne, floral bouquets (top notes)

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Petitgrain, Bergamot (Citrus bergamia)

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Siamwood/Pemou(Fokienia hodginsii )

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Siamwood/Pemou(Fokienia hodginsii)

Wikipedia

Gemnosperm database

Siam wood/Pemou (Fokiena hodginsii) Essential oil/Vietnam

Siam wood/Pemou (Fokiena hodginsii) Essential oil/Vietnam

Images of Siamwood

he oil displays a soft, creamy, warm, sweet balsamic, slightly nutty, precious woods bouquet. As the aroma matures its creamy sweet balsamic-precious woods notes continue to manifest themselves with a rich cedarwood under-note.

In perfumery could be effectively use in oriental compositions, incense perfumes, forest blends, precious woods note. It main function is that of a fixative where it acts as a perfect crucible in which other oils could meld together harmoniously

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Siamwood/Pemou(Fokienia hodginsii)

Plai(Zingiber cassumanar) essential oil/Indonesia, Thailand

Plai(Zingiber cassumanar) essential oil/Indonesia, Thailand

Images of Plai-plant, flowers and root

The pale yellow mobile oil distilled from the roots displays a fresh spicy, rooty, camphoraceous, grapefruit/yuzu like note with a coniferous undertone. The unique citrus note that is found at the heart of this spicy/root bouquet grows more clear and refined as the heart note phase develops.

In natural perfumery works well in citrus colognes, spice notes, apothecary perfumes, culinary accords, earth notes, ayurvedic preparations

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Plai(Zingiber cassumunar)

Combava/Kaffir Lime Petitgrain(Citrus hystrix)/Indonesia-organic

Combava/Kaffir Lime Petitgrain(Citrus hystrix)/Indonesia-organic

Images of Combava/Kaffir Lime tree-tree, flower and fruit

The oil produced from steam distilling the leaves possesses a powerful, fresh, pungent green-leafy, lemon-lime/yuzu type of aroma-a very distinct bouquet. As the initial impact of the top-notes softens, a softer, sweeter, balsamic, juicy citrus bouquet comes to the forefront-(at approximately 45 minutes into the dry-out)and intermingles with the greener leafy notes. Occasionally one may also detect a delicate coumarinic note arising in the later stages of the dry-out.

In perfumery could be used in geographical essences, culinary perfumes, colognes, chypres, fougeres, green accords, tropical bouquets

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Combava/Kaffir Lime(Citrus hystrix)

Petitgrain Mandarin(Citrus reticulata) essential oil/Corsica

Petitgrain Mandarin(Citrus reticulata) essential oil/Corsica

Images of Mandarin trees-leaf, flower and fruit

The aromatic characteristics of Mandarin Petitgrain are highly variable in my experience.
Over the years I have procured samples from S. Africa, Egypt, and Italy and all of them shared a delightful fruity/floral undertone but often displayed a rather uninteresting green slightly rubbery topnote. The Corsican organic Mandarin Petitgrain though immediately opens up with a fresh, tangy, intensely sweet, rich fruity-floral note. It has exceptional radiation. A clear sweet fruity, green, tangy note remains deep into the dry-out


In natural perfumery it is used in colognes, fougeres, chypres, oriental bouquets, tropical perfumes, high class florals, neroli bases, forest notes, geographical perfumes; culinary perfumes

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Mandarin(citrus reticulata blanco)

Research Links for Aromatic Plants- Orange, Blood(Citrus sinsensis var.blood orange)

Research Links for Aromatic Plants- Orange, Blood(Citrus sinsensis var.blood orange)

Citrus fruits and their culture By H. Harold Hume

wikipedia

Best of Sicily Magazine

Produce Pete

Blood orange History

Citrus Pages

Italian Farmers Table

Fresh Attitude

Orange, Blood(Citrus sinensis var.blood orange) essential oil/Italy

Orange, Blood(Citrus sinensis var.blood orange) essential oil/Italy

Images of Blood Orange

Blood orange essential oil is a pale yellow liquid displaying a delicate, soft, sweet, juicy, fruity-citrus aroma

In natural perfumery used in citrus accords, colognes, to note in high class perfumes, culinary perfumes, diffuser blends

Research Links for Aromatic Plants- Orange, Blood(Citrus sinsensis var.blood orange)

Opoponax (Commiphera guidotti) essential oil/Ethiopia

Opoponax (Commiphera guidotti) essential oil/Ethiopia

Music, surely, was
the art nearest akin to odour. A superb and subtle chord floated about
him; it was composed of vervain, opoponax, and frangipane. He could not
conceive of a more unearthly triad. It was music from Parsifal.
Visionaries, by James Huneker


Images of Opoponax

Opoponax is a pale yellow or orange colored liquid displaying a rich, intensely sweet, balsamic-resinous aroma with a delicate fruity-spicy undertone of good tenacity.

In natural perfumery is used in chypre, fougere, incens ebouquets, leather bases, Oriental bouquets, forest notes, heavy-floral perfumes

Nutmeg (Myristica fragrans) essential oil/Sri Lanka, Indonesia

Nutmeg (Myristica fragrans) essential oil/Sri Lanka, Indonesia

It was, indeed, a most
pleasant portion of the island that we were now approaching. A
heavy-scented broom and many flowering shrubs had almost taken the place
of grass. Thickets of green nutmeg-trees were dotted here and there with
the red columns and the broad shadow of the pines, and the first mingled
their spice with the aroma of the others. The air, besides, was fresh
and stirring, and this, under the sheer sunbeams, was a wonderful
refreshment to our senses.
Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson

Images of Nutmeg

Nutmeg essential oil is a colorless to pale yellow liquid displaying a terpenic topnote in Sri Lankan distilled oil with fresh, warm, sweet, aromatic spicy body note and a woody undertone

In natural perumery used in spice accords, culinary perfumes, after-shave lotions, chypres, high class florals, and incense bouquets

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Mace/Nutmeg(Myristica fragrans)

Nagarmotha (Cyperus rotundus, C. scariosus) essential oil/India

Nagarmotha (Cyperus rotundus, C. scariosus) essential oil/India

Images of Nagarmotha root and plant

Nagarmotha essential oil is yellow to amber colored liquid displaying a rich, earthy-woody-mossy bouquet with a sweet balsamic undertone of good tenacity

In natural perfumery it is used in amber bases, incense bouquets, forest notes, Oriental bases, precious woods accords, heavy fougeres, agarwood re-creations

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Nagarmotha (Cyperus rotundus, C, scariosus)

Muhuhu (Brachyleana hutchinsii) essentiial oil/South Africa

Muhuhu (Brachyleana hutchinsii) essentiial oil/South Africa

Muhuhu essential oil is a pale yellow, viscous liquid displaying a soft, woody(cedarwood-vetiver) bouquet with a sweet balsamic undertone

In natural perfumes it is used as a general fixative as its quiet delicate presence does not effect the overall bouquet of materials it is combined but due to the fact the oil is heavy in base notes it has a fine fixative quality

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Muhuhu (Brachyleana hutchinsii)

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Muhuhu (Brachyleana hutchinsii)

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Muhuhu (Brachyleana hutchinsii)

Agroforestry tree database

Ecocrop

wooden tool handles

Mastic (Pistacia lentiscus) essential oil/Morocco

Mastic (Pistacia lentiscus) essential oil/Morocco

At the falling of dusk we passed a thickly-wooded tract large enough to be called a forest; the great trees looked hoary with age, and amid a jungle of undergrowth, myrtle and lentisk, arbutus and oleander, lay green marshes, dull deep pools, sluggish streams. A spell which was half fear fell upon the imagination; never till now had I known an enchanted wood. Nothing human could wander in those pathless shades, by those dead waters. It was the very approach to the world of spirits; over this woodland, seen on the verge of twilight, brooded a silent awe, such as Dante knew in his selva oscura.
By the Ionian Sea, by George Gissing



Images of Pistacia lentiscus

Mastic essential is a colorless to pale yellow liquid displaying a fresh, green, somewhat bitter, resinous(galbanum-like) aroma with a sweet balsamic undertone

In natural perfumery it is used in citrus colognes, incense perfumes, fougere, sacred essences, culinary perfumes

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Mastic (Pistacia lentiscus)

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Massoia bark(Cryptocaria massoia)

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Massoia bark(Cryptocaria massoia)

Wikipedia

Dictionary of Flavors By Dolf A. De Rovira

Flavour and fragrance chemistry By Virginia Lanzotti, Orazio Taglialatela-Scafati

Tropical Plant Book

Flavourings: production, composition, applications, regulations By Herta Ziegler

Massoia bark (Cryptocaria massoia) essential oil/Indonesia

Massoia bark(Cryptocaria massoia) essential oil/Indonesia

Massoia bark essential oil is a pale yellow liquid displaying a woody, balsamic,creamy bouquet with toasted coconut like undertone

In natural perfumer used in culinary creations, precious woods notes, Oriental bouquets, tropical perfumes

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Massoia bark(Cryptocaria massoia)

Marjoram, Sweet(Origanum majorana) essential oil/South Africa

Marjoram, Sweet(Origanum majorana) essential oil/South Africa

Far out of reach, some blue flowers smiling from their
gloom,
And the scent of marjoram and thyme waft rich perfume;
And higher up the plovers and sea-birds build their nest,
And perch upon some jutting crag, or flying, seem to rest.
Kentish lyrics
By Benjamin Gough

Images of Marjoram

Sweet Marjoram essential oil is a pale yellow or pale amber colored liquid displaying a warm, aromatic-spicy-camphoraceous odor with a woody-herbaceous undertone

In natural perfumery used in herbaceous accords, spice note, sacred perfumes, diffuser blends, fougere, Oriental bases, and colognes

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Marjoram(Origanum majorana)

Mandarin, Red(Citrus reticulata blanco var, "mandarin")Essential oil/South Africa and Italy

Mandarin, Red(Citrus reticulata blanco var, "mandarin")Essential oil/South Africa and Italy


The train moved away from Garrago; the steam from the engine rising straight up into the clear evening sky, in great curly masses that contrasted whitely against the purple hills. A fainter orangeflower perfume was now perceptible, but I myself could not detect any difference between this fragrance and that to which I had become accustomed. The nostrils of these Spaniards, however,—men who lived on the land,—were keen to mark the delicate nuance. "Mandarinos!" they exclaimed; the fields hereabouts being full of trees of the mandarin orange, whose scent is not so strong as that of the ordinary azahar.
Letters from Catalonia and other parts of Spain, Volume 2
By Rowland Thirlmere

Images for Mandarin: Fruity, Tree and Flower

Red Mandarin essential oil is a orange-brown to dark yellow liquid displaying a an intensely sweet, fresh, juicy-fruity-citrus aroma with a fine floral/neroli undertone.


In natural perfumery used in colognes, top note in high class floral, citrus accords, culinary bouquets, tropical perfumes

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Mandarin(citrus reticulata blanco)

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Mandarin(citrus reticulata blanco)

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Mandarin(citrus reticulata blanco)

University of Purdue

Wikipedia

Plants for a future

Flavor Ingredients

Citrus Essential Oils: Flavor and Fragrance By Masayoshi Sawamura

Citrus fruit: biology, technology and evaluation By Milind S. Ladaniya

Dictionary of Flavors By Dolf A. De Rovira

The complete technology book of essential oils (aromatic chemicals) By Niir Board

Mandarin, Green(Citrus reticulata) essential oil/Brazil

Mandarin, Green(Citrus reticulata) essential oil/Brazil

Leaving the ferry-boat, you mount into a carriage or an electric car, and you find yourself speeding along a flat peninsula, through a quadruple avenue of the most magnificent and graceful date and sago palms, on a broad and admirably kept road, edged with loveliest turf and flowerbeds of dazzling hue; and on each side, beyond the palms,an exquisite fringe of tall golden poplars, locust trees and eucalyptus, sheltering a heavenly wilderness of scented mandarin-orange and lemon trees, bananas and bamboos, every imaginable delicious fruit tree, and sweet and brilliant flowering shrub and plant—in short, a veritable Garden of Paradise!
Journal of a tour in the United States, Canada and Mexico
By Lady Winefred Howard of Glossop

Images for Mandarin: Tree, Flower and Fruit

There are three types of Mandarin cold pressed oil-red, green and yellow.
The color designations are based on the ripeness of the fruit with Green Mandarin being cold pressed from immature fruits, Yellow Mandarin from half ripe fruits and Red Mandarin from fully ripe fruits. Each has their own distinct and enchanting odor.

Green mandarin essential cold pressed is a light green oil displaying a delicate, slightly punguent, fruity-citrus aroma with a sweet floral undertone

In natural perfumery used in culinary perfumes, citrus accords, colognes, top note in floral creations, tropical bouquets

Mace(Myrstica fragrans) essential oil/Sri Lanka

Mace(Myrstica fragrans) essential oil/Sri Lanka

MACE, a highly-flavored spice obtained from the covering of the nutmeg, which is the seed kernel of a pear-shaped tropical fruit (see NutMeg). When this fruit becomes ripe its fleshy halves open, exposing the mace-covered kernel. Fresh mace is somewhat fleshy and of a bloodred color, and in fragrance and flavor is similar to the nutmeg. To prepare the mace for the market the natives dry it in the sun, which makes it half transparent and orange-yellow in color. It is used as a flavoring, either whole or ground. Mace is grown chiefly in the Spice Islands (East Indies) and in the West Indies.
The world book: organized knowledge in story and picture, Volume 5
edited by Michael Vincent O'Shea, Ellsworth D. Foster, George Herbert Locke

Images for Mace

Mace essential oil is a colorless to pale yellow liquid displaying a warm, aromatic spicy aroma with a sweet, slightly punguent, woody, undertone


In natural perfumery used in spice accords, colognes, after shave lotions, culinary perfumes, fougere, chypre

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Mace and Nutmeg(Myristica fragrans)

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

Lime peel, cold pressed(Citrus aurantifolia)-South Africa

Lime peel, cold pressed(Citrus aurantifolia)-South Africa

Lime essential oil, cold pressed from South Africa is a light green oil displaying a fresh, sweet, juicy, citrus odor with a slightly punguent undertone with good tenacity for a citrus oil

In natural perfumery it is used in chypre, cologne, citrus notes, culinary perfumes, air refreshners, ambre bases

Lime peel oil, cold pressed(Citrus aurantifolia)-Mexico

Lime peel oil , cold pressed from is a greenish yellow to green-yellow liquid displaying a soft, sweet, green, lemon-lime odor with a slightly sweet punguent undertone

Specific Gravity : 0.87200 to 0.88100 @ 25.00 °C.
Refractive Index : 1.48200 to 1.48600 @ 20.00 °C.
Optical Rotation : +41.00 to +35.00
Flash Point : 115.00 °F. TCC ( 46.11 °C. )

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Lime (Citrus aurantifolia)

Lime, steam distilled(Citrus aurantifolium)/Sri Lanka

Lime, steam distilled(Citrus aurantifolium)/Sri Lanka

Images of Lime: Tree, Fruit and Flower


Bear me, Pomona, to thy citron groves;
To where the lemon and the piercing lime,
With the deep orange, glowing through the green,
Their lighter glories blend.
Thompson

Lime essential oil(steam distilled) is a colorless to light green colored liquid displaying a sweet, juicy, citrus bouquet and a delicate floral undertone.


In natural perfumery used in colognes, citrus accords, top note in high class florals, chypre, ambre bases, culinary perfumes

Specific Gravity : 0.85500 to 0.86300 @ 25.00 °C.
Refractive Index : 1.47400 to 1.47600 @ 20.00 °C.
Optical Rotation : +34.00 to +47.00
Flash Point : 114.00 °F. TCC ( 45.56 °C. )

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Lime (Citrus aurantifolia)

Treasures of Aromatic Literature-the writings of Richard Jefferies/English Naturalist

Treasures of Aromatic Literature-the writings of Richard Jefferies/English Naturalist

The beeches and oaks become fewer as the ground rises, there are wide spaces of bracken and little woods or copses, every one of which is called a ' shaw.' Then come the firs, whose crowded spires, each touching each, succeed for miles, and cover the hill-side with a solid mass of green. They seem so close together, so thickened and matted, impenetrable to footsteps, like a mound of earth rather than woods, a solid block of wood; but there are ways that wind through and space between the taller trunks when you come near. The odour of firs is variable; sometimes it fills the air, sometimes it is absent altogether, and doubtless depends upon certain conditions of the atmosphere. A very small pinch of the fresh shoot is pleasant to taste; these shoots, eaten constantly, were once considered to cure chest disease, and to this day science endeavours by various forms of inhalations from fir products to check that malady. Common rural experience, as with the cow-pox, has often laid the basis of medical treatment. Certain it is that it is extremely pleasant and grateful to breathe the sweet fragrance of the fir deep in the woods, listening to the soft caressing sound of the wind that passes high overhead. The willow-wren sings, but his voice and that of the wind seem to give emphasis to the holy and meditative silence. The mystery of nature and life hover about the columned temple of the forest. The secret is always behind a tree, as of old time it was always behind the pillar of the temple. Still higher, and as the firs cease, and shower and sunshine, wind and dew, can reach the ground unchecked, comes the tufted heath and branched heather of the moorland top. A thousand acres of purple heath sloping southwards to the sun, deep valleys of dark heather; further slopes beyond of purple, more valleys of heather—the heath shows more in the sunlight, and heather darkens the shadow of the hollows—and so on and on, mile after mile, till the heath-bells seem to end in the sunset. Round and beyond is the immense plain of the air— you feel how limitless the air is at this height, for there is nothing to measure it by. Past the weald lie the South Downs, but they form no boundary, the plain of the air goes over them to the sea and space.
Field and hedgerow: being the last essays of Richard Jefferies
By Richard Jefferies

But the breeze comes, and ere the rattle of the wheels and cogs has died away, the fragrance of the flowers and green things has reasserted itself. Such a sunny slumber, and such a fragrance of flowers, both wild and cultivated, have dwelt round and over the place these 200 years, and mayhap before that. It is perhaps a fancy only, yet I think that where men and nature have dwelt side by side time out of mind there is a sense of a presence, a genius of the spot, a haunting sweetness and loveliness not elsewhere to be found. The most lavish expenditure, even when guided by true taste, cannot produce this feeling about a modern dwelling.
Wild life in a southern country
By Richard Jefferies

Here, where the ground slopes gradually, it is entirely covered with the purple bells; a sheen and gleam of purple light plays upon it. A fragrance of sweet honey floats up from the flowers where grey hive-bees are busy. Ascending still higher and crossing the summit, the ground almost suddenly falls away in a steep descent, and the entire hill side, seen at a glance, is covered with heath, and heath alone. A bunch at the very edge offers a purple cushion fit for a king; resting here a delicious summer breeze, passing over miles and miles of fields and woods yonder, comes straight from the distant hills.

Along those hills the lines of darker green are woods; there are woods to the south, and west, and east, heath around, and in the rear the gaze travels over the tops of the endless firs. But southwards is sweetest; below, beyond the verge of the heath, the corn begins, and waves in the wind. It is the breeze that makes the summer day so lovely.
Nature near London
By Richard Jefferies

The fragrance of the dew, invisibly evaporating, filled the air she breathed. From sweet-green hawthorn leaves, from heavy grasses drooping, the glittering drops dissolving brought with them the odour of leaf and flower. The larks, long since up, had sung the atmosphere clear of the faint white mist left by the night.
The dewy morn: a novel, Volume 1
By Richard Jefferies

The tall green trees shut out all but a narrow lane of sky, azure, but darkening; not the faintest breath of moving air relieved the sultry brooding heat of the summer twilight. From the firs came a fragrance, filling the atmosphere with a sweet resinous odour. The sap exuding through the bark formed in white viscous drops upon the trunks. Indolently reclining, half drowsy in the heat, he could see deep into the wood, along on the level ground between the stems, for the fallen 'needles' checked vegetation. A squirrel gambolled hither and thither in this hollow space; with darting rapid movements it came towards him, and then suddenly shot up a fir and was instantly out of sight among the thick foliage. In the stillness he could hear the tearing of the fibres of grass as the grey fed near. A hare came stealing up the track, with the peculiar shuffling, cunning gait they have when rambling as they deem unwatched. Limping slowly, 'Wat' stayed to choose tit-bits among the grass—so near that when an insect tickled him and he shook his head Geoffrey heard the tips of his ears flap together. Daintily he pushed his nose among the tussocks, then craned his neck and looked into the thickets. Where the track turned at the bend the shadows crept out, toning down the twilight with mystic uncertainty.
Greene Ferne farm
By Richard Jefferies

'It's indoors, sir, as kills half the people ; being indoors three parts of the day, and next to that taking too much drink and vittals. Eating's as bad as drinking; and there ain't nothing like fresh air and the smell of the woods. You should come out here in the spring, when the oak timber is throwed (because, you see, the sap be rising, and the bark strips then), and just sit down on a stick fresh peeled—I means a trunk, you know— and sniff up the scent of that there oak-bark. It goes right down your throat, and preserves your lungs as the tan do leather. And I've heard say as folk who work in the tan-yards never have no illness. There's always a smell from the trees, dead or living. I could tell what wood a log was in the dark by my nose ; and the air is better where the woods be. The ladies up in the great house sometimes goes out into the fir plantations—the turpentine scents strong, you see—and they say it's good for the chest; but, bless you, you must live in it. People go abroad, I'm told, to live in the pine forests to cure 'em: I say these here oaks have got every bit as much good in that way.
Richard Jefferies, his life and work
By Edward Thomas

Green rushes, long and thick, standing up above the edge of the ditch, told the hour of the year as distinctly as the shadow on the dial the hour of the day. Green and thick and sappy to the touch, they felt like summer, soft and elastic, as if full of life, mere rushes though they were. On the fingers they left a green scent; rushes have a separate scent of green, so, too, have ferns, very different to that of grass or leaves. Rising from brown sheaths, the tall stems enlarged a little in the middle, like classical columns, and heavy with their sap and freshness, leaned against the hawthorn sprays. From the earth they had drawn its moisture, and made the ditch dry; some of the sweetness of the air had entered into their fibres, and the rushes—the common rushes—were full of beautiful summer. The white pollen of early grasses growing on the edge was dusted from them each time the hawthorn boughs were shaken by a thrush. These lower sprays came down in among the grass, and leaves and grass-blades touched. Smooth round stems of angelica, big as a gun-barrel, hollow and strong, stood on the slope of the mound, their tiers of well-balanced branches rising like those of a tree. Such a sturdy growth pushed back the ranks of hedge parsley in full white flower, which blocked every avenue and winding bird's-path of the bank. But the " gix," or wild parsnip, reached already high above both, and would rear its fluted stalk, joint on joint, till it could face a man. Trees" they were to the lesser birds, not even bending if perched on; but though so stout, the birds did not place their nests on or against them. Something in the odour of these umbelliferous plants, perhaps, is not quite liked; if brushed or bruised they give out a bitter greenish scent. Under their cover, well shaded and hidden, birds build, but not against or on the stems, though they will affix their nests to much less certain supports. With the grasses that overhung the edge, with the rushes in the ditch itself, and these great plants on the mound, the whole hedge was wrapped and thickened. No cunning of glance could see through it; it would have needed a ladder to help any one look over.
The life of the fields
By Richard Jefferies

In spring the ground here is hidden by a verdant growth, out of which presently the anemone lifts its chaste flower. Then the wild hyacinths hang their blue bells so thickly that, glancing between the poles, it is hazy with color; and in the evening, if the level beams of the red sun can reach them, here and there a streak of imperial purple plays upon the azure. Woodbine coils round the tall straight poles, and wild hops, whose bloom emit a pleasant smell if crushed in the fingers. On the upper and clearer branches of the hawthorn the nightingale sings — more sweetly, I think, in the freshness of the spring morning than at night. Resting quietly on an ashstole, with the scent of flowers, and the odor of green buds and leaves, a ray of sunlight yonder lighting up the lichen and the moss on the oak trunk, a gentle air stirring in the branches above, giving glimpses of fleecy clouds sailing in the ether, there comes into the mind a feeling of intense joy in the simple fact of living.
An English village: A new ed. of Wild life in a southern county
By Richard Jefferies

Sometimes the green tips of the highest boughs seemed gilded, the light laid a gold on the green. Or the "trees bowed to a stormy wind roaring through them, the grass threw itself down, and in the east broad curtains of a rosy tint stretched along. The light was turned to redness in the vapour, and rain hid the summit of the hill. In the rush and roar of the stormy wind the same exaltation, the same desire, lifted me for a moment. I went there every morning, I could not exactly define why; it was like going to a rose bush to taste the scent of the flower and feel the dew from its petals on the lips. But I desired the beauty—the inner subtle meaning—to be in me, that I might have it, and with it an existence of a higher kind.
The story of my heart: My autobiography
By Richard Jefferies

There is a broad streak of bright-yellow charlock—in the open arable field beyond the Common. It lights up the level landscape; the glance falls on it immediately. Field beans are in flower, and their scent comes sweet even through the dust of the Derby Day. Red heads of trifolium dot the ground; the vetches have long since been out, and are so still; along the hedges parsley forms a white fringe.
The toilers of the field
By Richard Jefferies


And so our wild flowers of the copse, the meadows, and the downs have about each and all of them a human aroma—an odour of the Past. They have with them the associations from our childhood, when we played amongst them, gathered them by multitudes in sport. They bring with them strange tales of centuries since, when knights wore them on their helmets, when ladies rode a-hawking over them. They have a history, or rather a mythology, of their own. Pierce's instructions were that they should not disdain the humblest—not even the buttercup and the daisy—and he wanted, too, the very grasses, each and all.
Restless human hearts: a novel, Volume 1
By Richard Jefferies

Another time there would come a letter from one of the Flammas in London. Could they spare a little bag of lavender?—they grew such lovely sweet lavender at Coombe Oaks. Then you might see Mr. and Mrs. Iden cooing and billing, soft as turtle-doves, and fraternising in the garden over the lavender hedge. Here was another side, you see, to the story.
Mrs. Iden was very fond of lavender, the scent, and the plant in every form. She kept little bags of it in all her drawers, and everything at Coombe Oaks upstairs in the bedrooms had a faint, delicious lavender perfume. There is nothing else that smells so sweet and clean and dry. You cannot imagine a damp sheet smelling of lavender.
Iden himself liked lavender, and used to rub it between his finger and thumb in the garden, as he did, too, with the black-currant leaves and walnutleaves, if he fancied anything he had touched might have left an unpleasant odour adhering to his skin. He said it cleaned his hands as much as washing them.
Iden liked Mrs. Iden to like lavender because his mother had been so fond of it, and all the sixteen carved oak-presses which had been so familiar to him in boyhood were full of a thick atmosphere of the plant.
Amaryllis at the fair: a novel
By Richard Jefferies

Sweet is the rain the wind brings to the wallflower browned in the heat, a-dry on the crumbling stone. Pleasant the sunbeams to the marigold when the wind has carried the rain away and his sun-disc glows on the bank. Acres of perfume come on the wind from the black and white of the bean-field ; the firs fill the air by the copse with perfume. I know nothing to which the wind has not some happy use.
Field and hedgerow: being the last essays of Richard Jefferies
By Richard Jefferies

Farther up the stream, where a hawthorn bush shelters ity stands a knotted fig-wort with a square stem and many branches, each with small velvety flowers. If handled, the leaves emit a strong odour, like the leaves of the elder-bush; it is a coarse-growing plant, and occasionally reaches to a height of between four and five feet, with a stem more than half an inch square. Some ditches are full of it. By the rushes the long purple spike of the loose-strife rises, and on the mudbanks among the willows there grows a tall plant with bunches of flower, the petals a bright yellow: this is the yellow loose-strife. Near it is a herb with a much-divided leaf, and curious flowers like small yellow buttons. Rub one of these gently, and it will give forth a most peculiar perfume—aromatic, and not to be compared with anything else ; the tansy once scented will always be recognised.
Round about a great estate
By John Richard Jefferies

Sometimes in early June the bright trifolium, drooping with its weight of flower, brushes against the passer-by—acre after acre of purple. Occasionally the odour of beans in blossom floats out over the river. Again, above the green wheat the larks rise, singing as they soar; or later on the butterflies wander over the yellow ears. Or, as the law of rotation dictates, the barley whitens under the sun. Still, whether in the dry day, or under the dewy moonlight, the plain stretching from the water to the hills is never without perfume, colour, or song.
Nature near London
By Richard Jefferies

Treasures of Aromatic Literature-Scent in the writings of Rebecca Davis Harding

Treasures of Aromatic Literature-Scent in the writings of Rebecca Davis Harding


If she had done it, she chose her audience badly. For a moment Dallas stood bewildered with the enchantment of color and fragrance, "over-canopied with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine ;" then he pushed his hat back on his head and thrust his hands into his pockets, going about with a puzzled, eager whistle, peering—not at the flowers, but the earth in which they grew. Musk-roses did not belong to November ; and here was the gray moss of the sea-woods, which could not possibly take root in this alluvial soil; and the knobby prickle-bush of the Jersey sands, which never would flower for him, bursting into a glory of red, voluptuous flowers ; and those must be the Japan lilies, and that the famous Espiritu-Santo flower, of which he had read, but never hoped to see. All these in summer bloom in November among the Ohio hills ! As for enchantment, or a possible Titania, that was hardly within the scope of Dallas' brain.
Dallas Galbraith
By Rebecca Harding Davis

Surely there were airy affections, subtle friendlinesses, among these dumb living creatures! They all seemed alive to her, though she was a prosaic woman, who had read little beyond her cookery-book and Bible. It was as though she had come unbidden into Nature's household and interrupted the inmates talking together. The Carolina rose stretched in masses for miles along the road — the very earth seejued to blush with it: here and there a late rhododendron hung out its scarlet banner. The tupelo thrust its white fingers out of the shadow like a maiden's hand, and threw out into the air the very fragrance of the lilies-of-the-valley which used to grow in the garden she made when she was a little girl. The silence was absolute, except when a pheasant rose with a whirr or a mocking-bird sounded its melancholy defiant call in the depths of the forest. Long habit of grief had left her heart tender and its senses keen: these things, which were but game or specimens for the naturalist, were God's creatures to her, and came close to her. Charley woke, and looking up saw her smiling down on him with warm cheeks. She did not know the name of a plant or tree or bird, but she felt the friendliness and welcome of the hills, just as she used to be comforted and lifted nearer to God by distant church music, although she could not hear a word of the hymn.
Silhouettes of American life
By Rebecca Harding Davis

The sun set redly on Ross' holiday; threw cool, broad shadows of the great walnut trees across the grassy slope in front of Nathan's little cottage, where they all had gathered. The far quiet of night brooded in the dulling, melancholy horizon, in the darkening woods, in the drowsy murmur of the distant water courses, a low harvest moon set its crescent in the gray west; but near at hand the crimson light flamed against the windows, the falling dew called out the fragrance of the clover-fields; the birds, whose nests were up in the walnut trees, chirped good night, and woke to chirp it again. Nathan stood beside old Joe, who had his boy asleep on his knee. The mulatto was silent, but his eyes followed Tom and his mother unceasingly, with a hunger yet unsatisfied.
Waiting for the verdict
By Rebecca Harding Davis

This was thirty years ago. You will search now in vain in that neighborhood for the old type of farm and farmer. There are no longer little dairies where the women beat their fragrant butter into shapes, stamp them with their initials, and send them proudly into market. The butter is made by men en masse, in huge creameries, and handled by wooden paddles. The farmers' daughters, if they are well-to-do, are traveling abroad; if they are not, the girls are stenographers or saleswomen in some city.
Bits of gossip
By Rebecca Harding Davis

Joe's wound had been tardy in healing; the bandages were not yet removed. The surgeon adjusted them more slowly than usual, Burley fancied, to-day, after he had heard of Randolph's intended marriage, remaining silent, his small pale face compressed as he bent over the bed. A soft Spring air came in at the open windows, bringing the scent from the apple-orchards and the meadows, blue with wild violets, sloping from the farm-house to the creek below. The sunshine rested on it, broad and warm, the rustle of the trees outside, the hesitating gurgle of the creek over its slaty bed, the chatter of the martins in the eaves, the bleat of the calves in the barn-yard, old Matsy's crooning as she sat knitting on the kitchen door-step, brought the pleasant out-door Spring morning into Joe's cheerful chamber. He watched the shadow of the waving curtains on the white wall and then glanced at Broderip, trying to smother his chagrin at his indifference to Rosslyn's wedding, thinking that "it wur nateral when- a man keered nothin' for wife or children for himself, that them things should seem triflin' for others."
Waiting for the verdict
By Rebecca Harding Davis

Anne, when she fell asleep, was sitting in a hammock on a veranda of the house nearest to the water. The wet bright sea-air blew about her. She had some red roses in her hands, and she crushed them up under her cheek to catch the perfume, thinking drowsily that the colors of the roses and cheek were the same. For she had had great beauty ever since she was a baby, and felt it, as she did her blood, from her feet to her head, and triumphed and was happy in it. She had a wonderful voice too. She was silent now, being nearly asleep. But the air was so cold and pure, and the scent of the roses so strong in the sunshine, and she was so alive and throbbing with youth and beauty, that it seemed to her that she was singing so that all the world could hear, and that her voice rose — rose up and up into the very sky.
Silhouettes of American life
By Rebecca Harding Davis

Presently they sat down to breakfast together. Garrick was at home now, and possessed his soul in comfort, breathing his native air. His training and habits fitted him keenly to appreciate this woman, whom he had long known by tradition, and knew to have come to her inheritance of beauty and esprit in the days of Jefferson and Burr; a grande dame in that keen-witted circle, but who was now only white-haired Abigail Blanchard, misplacing her thees and thous with a piquant stateliness. The simple, subtle grace of a fine manner remained, as the delicate aroma with the dead flower. It made the morning air off from the muddy fields, gay, as well as fresh; it brought out all that was heartsome in the fire, the uncertain lights; it gave to the plain little breakfast the zest of a picnic.
Waiting for the verdict
By Rebecca Harding Davis

It was a cool morning, with soft mists rolling up the hills, and flashes between of sudden sunlight. The air was full of pungent woody smells, and the undergrowth blushed pink with blossoms. There was no look of a cemetery about the place. Here and there, in a shady nook, was a green hillock like a bed, as if some tired traveler had chosen a quiet place for himself and lain down to sleep.

Bits of gossip
By Rebecca Harding Davis

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.
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

Lavender Fine Population High Altitude(Lavandula angustifolia) essential oil/France

Lavender Fine Population High Altitude(Lavandula angustifolia) essential oil/France

Fine Population Lavender is a colorless to pale yellow liquid displaying a rich, sweet, herbaceous, fruity-floral bouquet wit a balsamic woody undertone

In natural perfumery used in colognes, high class florals, herbaceous accords, literary perfumes, culinary creations, fougere, chypre, amber bases

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Lavender, Fine Population High Altitude(Lavandula angustifolia)

Lawang (Cinnamomum culilawan) essential oil-Indonesia

Lawang (Cinnamomum culilawan) essential oil-Indonesia

Lawang essential oil is a pale yellow to colorless liquid displaying a soft, warm spicy(clove-nutmeg like) bouquet with balsamic-woody undertone of good tenacity

In natural perfumery used in apothecary blends, spice accords, incense bouquets, diffuser blends, after-shave lotions

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Lawang (Cinnamomum culilawan)

Treasures of Aromatic Literature- Scent of Lavender by Various

Father Gabriel had one extravagance, which was a delightfully open secret. It endeared him to many, showing him human and in so delicious a manner human. He gave full rein to his passion for the smell of lavender: old English lavender, in every form; the flower dried, in sachets; lavender soap, lavender water, lavender bath-salts. It was even said on good authority that he burned lavender stalks as incense in his room. The fragrance of lavender hung around him; and many ladies in consequence considered lavender too holy a scent for ordinary use. The odour of lavender was identical with the odour of sanctity.
Nine tales
By Hugh De Sélincourt

Evan was working in the strip of garden which ran from the front of the house, where stood the stones and monuments that were at once his sign and his stock-in-trade, to the back of it where were the yard and the shed. It was late summer and evening. There had been rain earlier in the day— the heavy rain of August that does not fall till the drops are large—and the earth smelled fresh and moist as the stonemason turned it with his spade. There were many scents in Evan's garden; the scent of the rose was one of them, of heliotrope another, of honeysuckle a third; but sweetest of all was the scent of lavender. Mrs. Radnor, when she came out to exchange a word with her husband, picked a sprig of it and crushed it between the hard finger and thumb of a hand which was yet very gentle, and held it to her nose.
"It makes me remember things," she said, and did not know that she would never again smell lavender without thinking of this evening.
Towing-path Bess and other stories
By Richard Pryce

I was at Sainte-Enimie before sunset, and there I found the air laden with the scent of lavender. True, all the hills round about were covered with a blue-gray mantle; but I had never known the plant when undisturbed give out such an aroma before. Looking down from the little bridge to the waterside, my wonder ceased. There in a line, with wood-fires blazing under them, were several stills, and behind these, upon the bank, were heaps of lavender stalks and flowers such as I had never seen even in imagination. There were enough to fill several bullock-waggons. The fragrance in the air, however, did not come so much from these mounds as from the distilled essence. It was evident that Sainte-Enimie had a considerable trade in lavender-water.
Wanderings by southern waters: Eastern Aquitaine
By Edward Harrison Barker

When Drurie recovered consciousness it was to find himself on the earthen floor of the hut. His face and left eye ached with a dull throbbing that, at the slightest movement, sprang to excruciating activity. He lifted his hand cautiously and felt that his head and face were generously bandaged in damp cloths. At the discovery, thought of the senorita, of whom the overseer had spoken, came to him. The cloths that bound head and eyes were of fine linen, and a subtle fragrance of lavender exhaled from them. An overseer would have bandaged his wounds with very different material, he reflected. Could it be that the senorita, that mysterious and merciful being, had tended him with her own hands? How strongly, sweetly familiar this scent of lavender!
A cavalier of Virginia: a romance
By Theodore Goodridge Roberts

As I have spoken of the little walnut cupboard, I must tell you something about it. It stood in a recess in our bedroom; and no one ever opened it but myself, and that was only at long intervals. When it was opened there was a scent of lavender, and of rose-leaves, and you saw nothing but white linen laid over the half-filled shelves. Underneath lay, in orderly array, a baby's first wardrobe—soft cambric and lace, and flannel, every dainty etcetera, even to the little knitted boots and hood.
Tales, sketches, and verses, by A.E.I.
By A E. I, Tales

She unlocked the oak chest, and thrust back the heavy lid. She lifted the green cloth which kept the contents from dust. A fragrance of lavender rose from within. One of the muslin bags had burst. Little bluish pellets of lavender had scattered among the packages. There were many packages. She turned them over gently, wondering why she kept them all, yet knowing that she could not burn them. She took out half a dozen packages. Opening them, one at a time, she entered again into the past, with the feeling that it was infinitely dead. There were letters from friends who had been dead for twenty years, letters from people who had been dear, letters about people who had been forgotten.
The street of to-day
By John Masefield

We watched the bee-gardener as she went to one of the neighbouring hives, subdued and opened it, drew out all the brood-combs, and brought them over in a carryingrack, with the bees clustering in thousands all about them. Then a scent-diffuser was brought into play, and the fragrance of lavender-water came over to us, as the combs of both hives were quickly sprayed with the perfume, then lowered into the hive, a frame from each stock alternately. It was the old time-honoured plan for uniting bee-colonies, by impregnating them with the same odour, and so inducing the bees to live together peaceably, where otherwise a deadly war might ensue. But the whole operation was carried through with a neat celerity, and light, dexterous handling, I had never seen equalled by any man.
The bee-master of Warrilow
By Tickner Edwardes

Geraldine Hawthorne always said that it was like going to sleep, and waking up to find one's self a child again, with no cares or responsibilities, to enter the doors of Endicot House. And something of the charm made itself felt even by Ralph Calverley. There came a soothing sensation as if he had passed through the portals into an earlier, fresher world, far removed from all the jarring fret and worry of the one where he passed his life. The long low room, with its old world fragrance of lavender and pot-pourri—the evidence of the maxim " of a place for everything, and everything in its place," being carried out in each smallest detail; and as an embodiment of the spirit of the place, Cousin Miriam seated in her arm-chair by the fireplace, with its tiles, whereon were depicted, in stirring fashion, many important acts of Old Testament history,—Cousin Miriam in her soft gray gown, muslin handkerchief, and close-fitting cap, which, despite its stiffness, seemed such a suitable setting for the soft gentle face. Even Cousin Jonathan, flitting about in his quick bustling fashion, his cheeks red as a winter apple, did not seem out of keeping with the harmony of the picture. He-fitted in somehow, perhaps because every one fitted in with Cousin Miriam. Anything discordant did not destroy her charm; she, on the contrary, seemed to bring it into her magic circle.
Geraldine Hawthorne
By Beatrice May Butt

Only a step from its canals you wander through the silvery olive orchards of Provence, or climb the sweet lavenderscented hillsides, or follow a smooth, white road past an old red-roofed farmhouse, or a dark cypress grove, or a stone-pine standing solitary, or else a thick hedge of tall, waving reeds. And even while in the town, you cannot help seeing the country as you never do in Venice. As the fishermen drew up their nets on canal-banks there would come rattling by long Provencal carts, drawn by horses that wear the blue wool collar and high-pointed horn which makes them look like some domestic species of unicorn. Or in the cool of the summer evening, after the rest during the day's heat, a shepherd, crushing a sprig of lavender between his fingers as he walked, would drive his goats and sheep over the bridges, and start out for the long night's browse on the salt marshes by the lake, or on the sparse turf of the rocky hillsides ; or in the morning, just as the white-sailed boats were coming home, he would leave his flock huddled together on the church steps or in the little square.
Play in Provence
By Elizabeth Robins Pennell, Joseph Pennell

The tall cypress-trees that in the plains spire up into the sky disappear as one ascends, and few shrubs or trees clothe the bald hillside. Wild thyme and lavender betray their presence by the fragrance of their perfume. Rabbits burrow amongst the undergrowth ; hawks hover high overhead, and with keen, penetrating vision sweep the rugged landscape in search of prey. Few other signs of life disturb the quiet of the lonely hills.
A tour through old Provence
By Archibald Stevenson Forrest


Wild lavender and thyme and yellow gorse still fringe the road a little further, with here and there an almondtree; but soon the road begins to cling to one side of a cliff, with a sheer drop on the outer edge, guarded by lines of scattered stones. Then a wild, desolate valley opens out to the east, and the guardstones of the winding road crowd close together like the battlements upon a fortress, while the steep mountain-sides burn blue and gold with countless tiny blossoms set among the scanty green. Alone and bare, and straight ahead, a gaunt crag of wind-swept limestone marks and bars the valley's end. The road, now built upon a wall, crosses over to the northern side, and the stone-carts from the quarries above begin to swing down with their first freights for the day. Quite unexpectedly the horizon opens out towards the plains of Orgon and Cavaillon on the east, and westwards to Tarascon and Beaucaire." Above the rocky amphitheatre from which the road seems to have emerged the silver line of the Rhone shows like a glittering thread in the morning sunlight, just where the elephants of Hannibal crossed it so long ago, just where Nicolete first saw Aucassin coming downwards from the castle gate. Through towering walls of white, a way
has been cut for the carriage road sheer down into the limestone, and quarries begin to gape on every side, until suddenly upon the right a little slip of green valley pushes its way into this rocky desolation, and from some hidden building in it a bell rings slowly, like the dirge for a dead world that has already turned to stone.
Old Provence
By Theodore Andrea Cook

Treasures of Aromatic Literature-Scent of Orange Blossoms by Various

Treasures of Aromatic Literature-Scent of Orange Blossoms by Various

About a week after, a tiny box came among Mr. Middlcton's packages from the village. He smiled to himself and took it up stairs with his letters. An hour afterward, when the sun was setting, he came down stairs and looked about for Meg; she was sitting on a low stool, with some coarse sewing in her lap, by a window opening toward the west; her beautiful h,rir was alive with the light which flooded it from the dying sun, and she made a picturesque if not a pretty picture, as he stood and looked at her. Sho had not heard hi? step, and started as he came forward and laid something in her lap.
"I have brbught you an odor from the South," he said; "tell me now what you think of orange blossoms." She opened the little paper box, and the wonderful scent, heavy with sweetness, rose up and filled her with a sense of delight. All the faint, delicate suspicions of fragrance which were all that the few wild flowers she had ever gathered could tell her of that supreme dower of flowers' odor, seemed cold and poor and empty compared with the intoxicating delight which emanated from these thick creamy petals.
"Did you get them for me?" she said, flushed with pleasure, her reserve swept away.
"Yes, I wrote for them; it was only confiscating the product of a certain greenhouse I knew of, and I wanted you to smell them once."
"Thank you, you are very kind;" and then she put them up to her face again and drank in long draughts of their sweetness.
"They will retain their odor a long while," he said; "I have had them sent in a letter from the South, and the flower and letter too were full of fragrance for weeks after."
How the Ship Came in by Rupert Graham

Many good reasons justify the belief that the orange is the tree of which the Bride sings in the Canticles, though the apricot has its advocates. Apples in so hot a climate are very poor, and no child of the East would sit down for shelter under the small leaves of the appletree, or say when thirsty, "Comfort me with apples" (Song of Sol. ii. 3, 5). We thus find Bible comments in the world-renowned Jaffa oranges. These are "the apples of gold in pictures of silver," or filigree work (Proverbs xxv. 11). They have a rich golden colour, and are often encircled by the blossoms, whose hue exactly resembles the molten silver used in the East. The orange-tree is one of the most pleasing objects in the East; it is an evergreen, and reaches a great age; its thick leathery leaves protect the husbandman from the arrows of Apollo; its blossoms are a thing of beauty; its fruitfulness is amazing, even in mid-winter, as it bears at the same time leaves, blossoms, and fruit in every stage of growth; and its fragrance is grateful, reviving, and far-spreading—it is a natural scent-bottle. Orange-juice is considered sovereign against fever, and every traveller knows that he can find nothing more likely to quench his thirst; and the snow-white blossoms are symbols of purity. Add all these qualities, and you will understand why the orange is so highly honoured in the Bible, why a garden or grove is part of the Eastern image of bliss, and why we wear orangeblossoms at a wedding as a symbol of all the blessings we wish the wedded pair. This custom has travelled from the East, the cradle of our race.
Travel-pictures from Palestine
By James Wells

SOUTHERN Spain—and a short, sleepless night full of the drifting scent of orange-blossoms; moonlight slanting in a white bar through the open window; footsteps coming and going ceaselessly in the street outside; voices, laughter; then, later, silence creeping in like a deep, slow tide, and suddenly a man's voice, singing:
Por una mirada tuya
Lo que diera no sé yo;
Por un beso, la existencia,
Por tu amor, salvación.
The words float through the window with the moonlight and the scent of orange-blossoms, fading gently away as the late passer goes farther on.
Folk songs from the Spanish
By Mrs. Helen Manchester Gates Granville-Baker

The travellers descended among olives woods, and soon after were directed by some peasants at work, into a road that leads from Aquila to the town of Celano, one of the very few roads which intrudes among the wild mountains, that on every fide sequester the lake. As they approached the low grounds, the scent of orange blossoms breathed upon the morning air, and the spicy myrtle sent forth all its fragrance from among the cliffs, which it thickly tufted. Bowers of lemon and orange spread along the valley; and among the cabins of the peasants, who cultivated them, Vivaldi hoped to obtain repose and refreshment for Ellena.
The Italian, or The confessional of the Black Penitents: A romance
By Ann Ward Radcliffe

A little way below the orange hedge at the end of the field, he paused before the dead branch of a tree in his way. His head was throbbing now, and the strange numbness had changed to a sharp pain. Unconsciously he put his hand to his head, and when he carried it away, it was wet. The throbbing in his head grew louder till it was like the roar of an oncoming earthquake. A mist floated before his eyes, and he fell face downward across the dead branch before him. Clutching it eagerly with both hands, he lay still. To his disordered brain, he was a child again in the church at San Juan; and the piece of dead wood in his hands was the standard of the processional cross. Madre de Dios! How loud was the noise of the earthquake now, and how terrible the pain in his head! A piece of falling masonry must have struck him—he could not remember. Feebly he lifted his head; and to him the glint of the white moon on the polished leaves of the orange trees was the light of candles burning on the high altar in the sanctuary.
"Padre—Padre Vicente," whispered Miguel brokenly.
But there was no answer. Then the terrible roar of the earthquake grew louder, and the lights on the altar went out.
When Miguel next opened his eyes, he found himself in bed in a cool, whitewashed room. Long bars of yellow sunlight lay across the floor, and through the open windows drifted the heavily sweet odor of orange blossoms. With the fragrance of the flowers came the sleepy twitter of linnets. It was the hour of sunset.
Miguel stirred faintly, and someone moved in the room. Something cool was laid across his forehead; and a voice whispered: "Sleep— go back to sleep." His eyes closed; and soon the scent of orange flowers and the twitter of linnets mingled in his dreams.
The King's Highway: a romance of the Franciscan order in Alta California
By Madeline Deaderick Willard

But when the sun begins to sink the book must be shut, for then the aesthetic sense claims a monopoly of the attention. The snow of a sudden assumes a delicate rosy tint, like the Swiss Alpglflhen, while the lower mountain chain on the opposite side, behind which the sun is slowly disappearing, looks like a fantastic coal-black silhouette contrasting vividly with the green sunset sky. For a quarter of an hour this scene may be enjoyed, when all at once the rosy blush on the Sierras disappears, leaving the snow more deadly pale than it had seemed before. The snow-fields of the Sierra are not measured by miles, as those of Alaska, and there are many black patches between them. But these very patches have a poetic suggestiveness, for from them came the snow-water which feeds the Alhambra gardens and groves, and enables the Granadans to drink in a snow-breeze perfumed with the fragrance of orange-blossoms. Surely, among all of Ovid's metamorphoses, there is none so strange and charming as this transformation of Sierra snows into fragrant, snowy orange-blossoms on a hill which but for the snow-water would be a barren rock, and was so before the Moors converted it into a paradise. During the week that I remained at Granada, I never once missed this sunset view, the perennial attractiveness of which was attested by the fact that even the guardian of the tower and his wife used to bring up chairs and guests to this tower-terrace, and sit admiring it. Surely no king ever had such a reoeption-room as these keepers of the Torre de la Vela!
Spain and Morocco: Studies in local color
By Henry Theophilus Finck

AND now it is spring once again: a glorious May-day with the sky of an intense blue, and every invisible atom in the translucent air quivering in the heat of the noon-day sun. All around the country-side the harvesting of orange-blossom has begun, and the whole atmosphere is filled with such fragrance that the workers who carry the great baskets filled to the brim with ambrosial petals feel the intoxicating perfume rising to their heads like wine.
Nicolette: a tale of old Provence
By Emmuska Orczy Orczy (Baroness)

She sent him a little box of orange blossoms. "I came home yesterday, "he told her, "to find my room full of a strange, delicious odor. At first I did not see the little box in the litter of papers on my table and I wondered to myself 'Have I been thinking so much about Verissima and the South that I can smell the orange blossoms here?' and then I found the box, and when I opened it I could almost hear you singing 'Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen blumen?' Oh, Verissima, it is very hard— here it is winter and snow and loneliness, and there it is warmth and orange blossoms and love and you. It seems to me that June will never come."
Veronica
By Martha Waddill Austin

The Moor and pomegranate ingredient has to be thought of; it is one that concerns us not in Italy; And the intensely religious ambient, the sombre monk, the reckless cigarette-girl, the dare-devil bull-fighter, the artistic passion of Velasquez and Murillo, the literary savour of the Novelas Ejemplares, the smell of orange-blossom, the bouquet of ancient Amontillado, the glamour of a starry night and a serenade beneath a balcony, the cries of water-carriers and gipsies; these and a thousand other signs and tokens go to the compounding of that incomparable whole—Sevilla.

If you look down from the Giralda, you will see flying buttresses and many other towers, the orange courtyard, the winding river, the white houses with their flat tops and terraces and balconies, and the awnings across the streets. You will smell the blossom in those voluptuous orange groves of Las Delicias beside the river.
Along Spain's river of romance, the Guadalquivir: the lure of the real Spain ...
By Ernest Slater

Lemon (Citrus limon) essential oil/South Africa

Lemon (Citrus limon) essential oil/Italy

Lemon essential oil is a light yellow to greenish yellow liquid displaying a fresh, sweet, fruity-citrus bouquet with a delicately punguent undertone which remains in evidence throughout the duration of its relatively short aromatic life

In natural perfumery used in colognes, citrus accords, topnote in high class florals, culinary bouquets and a general freshner and topnote in numerous perfume types

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Lemon (Citrus limon)

Lemongrass(Cymbopogon citratus) essential oil-India

Lemongrass-"citral rich"(Cymbopogon citratus) essential oil-India

Lemongrass essential oil is a pale yellow liquid displaying a fine, sweet, juicy, lemony-herbaceous bouquet with delicate floral-balsamic undertone

In natural perfumery used in herbaceous accords, culinary creations, ayurvedic blends, air refreshners, colognes

Lemongrass "rhodinol rich"(Cymbopogon citratus) essential oil-India

Lemongrass"rhodinol rich" essential oil is a pale yellow liquid displaying a sweet, lemony-roseaceous-herbal bouquet with a delicate tea-lik undertone

Research Links for Aromatic Plants-Lemongrass(Cymbopogon citratus)

Treasures of Aromatic Literature-The Story of an old Garden BY JANE W. GUTHRIE

The Story of an old Garden

A SONG OF SPRING

BY JANE W. GUTHRIE

THE wide valley, the languorous flow of a peaceful river, the vast cultivated fields were before me; the old stone house with its weight of a century of years was behind me; and I, in the midst of a deserted garden, once a marvel, the pride of its owner, a garden of hope and joy and youth—the youth of an imperial domain, of a State which is now verging toward its hundredth year, of a man who moulded many of the institutions of that State, and lives in thought as a figure of destiny pointing the way to an accomplishment of heroic deeds and the fulfilment of high ideals.

At my feet a small yellow crocus fluttered its silken garments in the raw March wind; the towering shrubs, unclipt and unkempt, waved branches toward me in very desolateness, as if demanding the human sympathy so long accorded them. In almost obliterated borders the weeds of last year held out

detaining fringes, and the box hedges and the great walnut-trees rattled in a dull and hopeless way in the all-pervading presence of a coining March gale.

The old stone house stood undismayed, but cheerless and comfortless, no hint of life in the uncurtained windows, the smokeless chimneys, the barred doors, which, in all the hundred years now past and gone, have never before been closed to guests, but opened with hospitality princely in its generosity. Silent and immutable as the Sphinx, it is yet so strong, so secure, that its very story seems as much a part of the future of our great nation as of the past. With the beautiful terraced garden as a background, one reads there a romance typically American; the story of a man who lived and loved, and planned and accomplished great deeds by the strength of his own individuality. Drawing inspiration from the founders of our nation, he, more than any other one man. gave form and vigor and impulse to the development of the vast imperial West.

The long procession of those who conquered a continent passed through, and by, and far beyond the old home; but its place in history marks it as a way-side inn of the nation where the vigorous, eventful life of a young State was told.

Down in the valley lies the little city where the State of Ohio was born. It is rich in memory of the first days of the great commonwealth. There forceful, dominant, master - minds, settlers in the Virginia Military District, started the State on her career of greatness. They gave Ohio her first Governor, her first United States Senator, her first Secretary of State, her first Speaker of the Legislature, her first Adjutant-General, her Great Seal, her first Constitution; they started the State Library, and in that little city was the State's first home; it was the first capital not only of the old Northwest Territory, but of the State of Ohio.

Sometimes at dawn, sometimes in the cold wet evenings of April, more often in the glory of the May noontide, I have climbed the long hill which leads to the quaint old garden of a century ago. At first I heard nothing there but that which was like the sad, insistent strain of melody in a dirge, the tragic, touching, piteous refrain, "I once was." But from the little crocus which announced the recurring birth of Nature, the witness to the fact that for one hundred years March had whispered there the secret of the year to a listening earth, I caught the thrilling, stirring, hopeful, and joyous song of Spring. From the warm brown earth, and the air, and the birds, came thoughts that trembled toward expression. T felt a subtle spiritual suggestion, the realization that a life once lived in vigor and fulness never dies. It sets in motion forces which carry messages to posterity; it gives to dreams, to aspirations, to hopes, an entity.

Every aspect of the place brought back the thought of the man who had been a formative power in the young State; and though the years might level the old stone pile once his home, and Time turn the garden to a waste, the spirit of those who made it a delight to the eye, and taught the flowers to bloom, will

never cease to have its effect upon the living. The force that with high aims accomplishes great deeds is imperishable; it is immortality.

March swept out on the winds into the infinite years of the past and carried all the desolate aspect of the garden; for when young April smiled through tears, stiff, white-green spikes were pushing themselves through the moist earth and the dead leaves of last year. The mystery of life stirred the senses, and expectancy deepened. In the first week of the month yellow Easter flowers and white jonquils nodded in the pale sunshine, making a veritable Field of the Cloth of Gold. The scarlet tanager, which had made furtive prospecting visits there in February and March, established himself and family permanently. Now and then the whistle of a quail pierced the quiet air, or the hoarse croak of a crow called defiance to the busy robins as he flapped his great black wings on the low stone wall.

On April's Easter Sunday the windswept borders of March wore a dazzling greenery refreshing to winter-tired eyes. I picked a bunch of white violets from a border nearly overgrown with bluestarred creepers of the periwinkle; the exquisite perfume was like the memories of a hundred years of sunshine and Spring. I walked through aisles of lilactrees where furled leaves made soft green curls upon brown branches, down pathways bordered on either side by great towering green yuccas, whose swordlike leaves swept the ground with a suggestion of cruelty essentially Spanish. The tall dead blooms of last year held up empty seed-pods to heaven in a very rage of neglect. I brushed by giant shrubs of Pyrus japonica showing the first red of its fiery bloom, by magnolia-trees thick with buds, and under great snowball - bushes which arched over the pathway beneath. In the more formal portion of the garden the tulips and hyacinths were drawing from the chemistry of Nature their brilliant colors and sweet perfumes to breathe upon the air.

In the centre of this reviving color and fragrance was a beautiful evergreen arbor-vita> tree, so perfect in shape, so greenly vivid, that on that day it was like all of the thoughts of Easter crystallized into form; it was the realization of a Winter's hope, a dream of immortality, the never - changing life of the spirit. The day made those centuryold walks, bordered by mossy stone flagging, quiet aisles of prayer, or whispering-galleries where one heard footsteps which had echoed there in love and hope and joy, in death and desolation.
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Mid-April! Snow, moist, deep, and clinging! For three days the tender leaves and forming buds shivered in soft white wreaths, heavy with moisture; and then Spring, as if ashamed of capricious ways, turned in her most attractive guise and sent warm days, and looked at the sweet fresh world through the

trembling haze that makes the valley so attractive. It is elusive, suggestive of day-dreams, of far, unfathomable distances; it gives a fairylike enchantment to the cloud palaces which hang over the hill-tops. There is a subtle analogy between this misty haze and the air of formality and reserve which marks the well-bred citizen of the quaint old town on the Seioto River. One realizes that certain social conditions are atmospheric. Nature suggests withdrawal from a too vivid life. The quiet reserve and dignified formality are but envelopes to the true personality, like the softening haze that veils the hills and valleys, and hints of undiscovered charms.

And May, "who goes before to makethe paths of June more beautiful," steps lightly across all this waiting, palpitating world. She whispers to the buds and blossoms; she breathes upon the soft curia of unfolded leaves; she hovers over the earth—and to her light touch the grass and sweet wild flowers respond with eager caress. All Xature bursts into one glorious choral of praise.

As I climbed the hill upon whose summit stands the old stone house, like a court beauty amid rustic surroundings, I realized how noble had been the impulse to allow Xature to tell her story absolutely untrammelled by efforts to place her advantageously. It was an almost theatrical setting for a home. One with an eye to scenic effect had grasped the possibilities there suggested. Down the sloping hill-side, in close ranks, marched primeval oaks and maples, picturesque beeches and elms. Here and there rose the ghostly, straight white trunk of a buttonball - tree, with the hanging, swinging globes of last year's seeds; or at a turn of the road a vision of the first Spring bride arrayed in white disclosed itself on closer view as the low - sweeping branches of a dogwood.

The fragrance of buckeye blossoms filled the air, and the redbud - tree gave a sinister touch of color to the hill-side, reminding one that over those wooded slopes once bounded the moccasined foot of the Shawanoe, whose last tribal efforts were made to hold this beloved valley for his own; his last stand was made in defence of this the ancestral home of his race. Did the wind-harp of Spring, in the trees that he loved, echo the sound of his battle-cry, or shrill his last weird call?

(ireat spreads of shining green leaves of the May-apple shielded its waxen blooms, and celadon - poppies in a yellow glory carpeted the earth with the gold of the kingdom of flowers. All through the grass, along the road-side, and in the crevices of the rocks were blue and white violets in prodigal profusion; while in and out and all about crept the trailing fringe of the ground-ivy, with its tiny blue-eyed blossom reflecting the vivid color of the sky. . Here and there the bloodroot lifted cups to heaven. The pure white flower with its golden heart, its blood-red root, its broad shielding green leaves, which ward off unholy grime, is Nature's symbol of The Holy Grail. Sloping down to the lake at its foot, the hill climbs upward to the plateau where Thomas Worthington, the youth from Virginia, located his land - warrants in 1796. From this beautiful level plain I looked down a ravine by the side of the road, to watch a dancing little stream chattering its story to the trilliums, anemones, and uncurling ferns; such a happy little story it seemed to be; such a glad joy of Spring; such a pride in being able to sweep over the rocks and through the ravine with its messages to the lake! Above, in the trees, the birds tried to rival its song. I turned to the house, which stood silent, sombre, and sad; but oh! the joy, the transfiguration in the garden and the orchard beyond! There was pictured the splendor of the dawn of the year. One could hardly believe that the snow-storm of a fortnight before had really passed. The tall lilacs were tipped with white and purple in feathery plumage; the tulips and hyacinths were in bloom; and now, those embryo white points that puzzled me a month earlier, as border to the star and oval and crescent shaped beds, disclosed themselves as small purple fleur-de-lis. Anything more quaint than these low-growing "flags" of our grandmothers I have never seen. Somehow I expected to see a figure walking in the garden clad in a short-waisted gown, a poke-bonnet from which peeped a bewitching face set in curls of golden hair, heelless slippers, and clocked stockings; a scarf about the shoulders, the management of which was a fine art. For beautiful daughters had reigned there; capricious beauty had been courted under those arching boughs; rosy cheeks had rivalled the inner shell-like blush of the magnolia which was opening its buds beside me, and bright eyes had looked love and pride at stately lovers. Aaron Burr had wandered down those pathways and talked floriculture with Eleanor Van Swearingen. the first mistress of the home. He left more than memories there, for he sent, as an appreciation of the garden in the wilderness, the moss-rose, the yellow jasmine, and the sweet honeysuckle, which still bloom and flourish in the rich soil as a tribute to one kindly
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act of a man whose supreme thought was self. Only the chance visitor and the birds catch their fragrance from the winds of Spring. Few know that, once upon a time, a very scheming, brilliantly fascinating, wicked little man, with delightful manners and wonderful eyes, chose those plants, or that he walked up and down the pathways and talked about seeds and roots and bulbs, just as if he were not plotting treason and planning his dream of empire.

Henry Clay's silvery voice cast many an echo among those old trees. Affiliation in taste and politics made him a frequent and welcome guest of the owner of "Adena," the home upon the hill. Daniel Webster came in touch there with the great boundless West. One could fancy the magnificent poise, the superb charm of the man as he paid tribute to the dignity of a life which was modeled upon that in old Virginia. Webster never did commonplace things, and he expressed his appreciation in no measured terms. De Witt Clinton; Rufus King, whose son married a daughter of the house; President Monroe; General Macomb, who married another daughter—many noted men and women of bygone years felt the pulsing life and the vivid charm of that spacious garden, which was laid out by a celebrated landscape-gardener in imitation of the one at Mount Vernon.

As 1 sat on the terrace steps, that sweet May day, my surroundings roused the sense of association. I looked at the old stone house, facing with sightless eyes the hills across the wide valley. Towering above the surrounding peaks is Mount Logan, named in honor of the Mingo chief whose pathetic lament rings in the ear of every school-boy. I saw in fancy the little group gathered in that house to design the Great Seal of the State. An all-night vigil was unproductive of result; but when dawn came, those who were met there, weary with effort, went out to watch the coming of the day. "Ah!" said William Creighton, Secretary of State, pointing to the sun climbing up from behind Mount Logan; "a new sun is rising upon the horizon." Returning to the house, he drew from the picture before his eyes the design for the seal of the new-born State, anil beneath it he wrote, "Imperium in Imperio"—An Empire within an Empire.
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Back of that still, my vision pictured the little group that left a home in old Virginia for conscience' sake. There was Thomas W'orthington, who believed most firmly in freedom for all men. Like many another great man of his State, he had convictions on the subject of slavery. He knew that in the great Northwest Territory, then luring men with its promises, was a Canaan which offered freedom of thought and action as a field for youthful ideals and imaginings; a refuge for those who believed in his principles. For by the terms of that Ordinance of 1787, whose primal thought was written by Thomas Jefferson, slavery there was

forever forbidden. With the leader was his young wife and her brothers; Edward Tiffin, who afterward became the first Governor of Ohio, and his wife, who was the sister of Thomas Worthington. They went to join a little group of Scotch-Irish settlers, who had migrated from the Elkhorn in Kentucky, to escape the restrictions of slavery, and founded the town of Chillicothe, in the Scioto Valley. This little band of crusaders going to fight a western wilderness took with them roots and seeds, herbs and simples. One can fancy that eyes grew dim with tears when those same seeds in sprouting brought tender memories of an unforgotten home. Those wanderers who followed Godfrey do Bouillon to the Holy Land brought back in return the seeds that caused Italy and the Low Countries to bloom into the first gardens that Europe knew. It was the development of ideas, stimulated to expression by travel of the Crusaders, that lifted the pall of the Dark Ages and civilized and humanized a western world.

Who, then, can estimate the influence of that garden, "far from all voice of teachers or divines"? How many people found there "priests, sermons, shrines "?

The lilies-of-the-valley rang fairy bells at the foot of the terrace walls, but the Spanish iris that used to flourish there is seen no more in the gardens of today. Its flower, with yellow petals heavily painted with lavender, its black centre and curving stamens set in sagegreen leaves, breathed the most exquisite perfume. It is but a memory now, like the empire of Spain in. the Western World. The old-fashioned grape-hyacinth grows near the tangles of "matrimony," and the quaint little polyanthus hides itself against the columbine. Near by is the wild growth of a yellow eglantine rose. Against the low wall the leaves of the myrtleberry shine, reminders of wax candles that were made from the berries of the bush, to gleam in white radiance over a brilliant assemblage, or light the way to a discussion of state secrets above the mahogany.

June days. The buckeye and locust blossoms no longer scent the air, the leaves are heavy on the trees, and the grass is seeding. Down in the valley the maize is waist-high and the wheat is ripening to the harvest.

In the garden the calycanthus has dropped its scented blooms, the yellow eorcoris flower is withered as it climbs over the low wall on the slope above the kitchen - garden; the snowballs are dry and brown, and the June lilies are budding. The great broad leaves of the daylilies shelter the white trumpets of a

coming July and shield the tansy and thyme growing against the stone flagging. Here and there an old-fashioned rose hides itself against its leaves as if mourning lost sisters. The microphylla which once grew over the trellis is dead, and the damask and cabbage roses vanished long ago. Syringa - bushes are thickly set with white stars of perfume, and gorgeous masses of peonies give color to the scene. At the root of a dead tree the star of Bethlehem makes a spotless wreath; and close at hand the yuccas lift white-green cups to heaven. Yellow Nile lilies and flaunting tiger-lilies are opening to catch the color of the sun. and the wild-grape perfume is wafted from the woods. Giant fleur-de-lis shake out odor and color, and Canterbury bells ring a sweet entrancing tune. Swiftdarting dragon-flies, drowsy bees, and lazy butterflies give motion to the soft sweet air; and the sound of noisy bird mothers, teaching immature sons and daughters to fly, breaks the quiet stillness. It is not a modern garden: there are no seeds to set for sprouting. There is nothing but the bulbs and bushes and shrubs of a century ago; nothing but memories and associations, and the fragrance of dead Summers.

The Spring is past, the glory of the garden is gone, but "Ichabod" is not written above it. The walks and alleys echo no more to the sound of voices, and the footsteps have passed into silence; but the romance of the past invests each stone with interest, each bush with a story, each bud and flower with the tender grace of a day that is dead.

The message that is written in memories and associations and read in the flowers that have seen the Springs of a hundred years is the immortality of thought, the undying force of an accomplished purpose, the imperishable ideal which opportunity and America have given to youth.