Fragrance of Mint

"Yes; we 've been thinking of people and old gardens, instead of looking for really wild flowers. It is hard to understand why in all these forgotten places the flowers are the last things to leave except the very stones. I wish that I could read the meaning of it all between the lines."
"Meaning?" queried Time o' Year, looking down the river, his rare smile spreading over his bronzed face as he paused a moment to listen to the rolling warble of a rose-breast. "There 's lots of meanings that we are n't meant to read in outdoor things as well as human ways, but I reckon that one 's plain enough. It 's that we ought to be keerful not to plant things in our gardens that, when we air gone, will trouble other folks and bring discredit on us." Time o' Year smiled again, as if he could see more meanings than he voiced, and, giving the rope a gentle pull, led the cow down to a clear, quiet pool to drink, the clean Mint fragrance rising from their trail.
Flowers and ferns in their haunts
By Mabel Osgood Wright

I recollect a clear fountain of cold water around which grew festoons of cress and mint. I had been chasing the wild things all the morning, as a true huntsman will, and now I was tired and thirsty. At such a time what could be more welcome than mint and water? How soothing the fragrant flavor and the cooling draught! Then came the biting spiciness of the cress, to reinvigorate my nerve withal. Out of my pouch I drew a cake of maple sugar, and feasted like a god.
Outing, Volume 5

I have walked once in summer by the side of a little marsh filled with mint and white hawthorn. The mint and white hawthorn have with them a vivid, rare, delicious perfume. It makes you want to grovel on the ground—it makes you think you might crawl in the dust all your days, and well for you. The perfume lingers with you afterward when years have passed. You may scream and kick and struggle and weep right lustily every day of your life, but in your moments of calmness sometimes there will come back to you the fragrance of a swamp filled with mint and white hawthorn.
It is meltingly beautiful.
The story of Mary MacLane
By Mary MacLane


I Mused upon the strangeness of all things,

So different from the dream
Whereof the morning mounted up on wings

Above the world agleam
With light that trembled into life and love
As when a censer swings
And j oy of promise sings —
"The dream whereof
The gleam above
The world is love!"

Oh, bitterness to muse and neither find

The beauty of the Muse
Nor yet the music which the soul divined

Ere set the rosy hues
In sombre lines that disenchant and fret
The heart with growing grief
Which struggles for relief —
"O Muse, but let
My spirit yet
The rue forget!"
As if to answer me a little child,
To whom the sunshine's glint
Was gloom forever, on the corner smiled

And vended sprigs of mint,
As though there were in blindness still a bloom
And fragrance which could reach
The passer-by and teach —
"In glint or gloom
There's mint in bloom
To earth perfume!"
Muse and mint
By Walter Seymour Percy

Early Morning Walk by Anne Pratt

Early Morning Walk by Anne Pratt

I Hope you are fond of early rising. I believe all Nature's children will allow that never are her scenes more beautiful than at the period of "reviving day," though all may not possess sufficient strength of body or energy of mind to induce them to relinquish their slumbers and wander abroad to behold her charms. How freshly the wind fans the cheek in an early morning walk, seeming to bear health on its breezes! How beautiful are the dew-drops scattered like pearls upon the leaves and flowers! How melodious the song of the up-rising lark, and how cheerful the active step of the countryman who is bending his way to the field 1 "Man goeth forth to his labour and to his work till the evening."

When we see the pale artisan of the crowded city enter beneath the roof where his daily occupation is to be pursued, we feel much of pity, as we think that in a close and confined room he is destined to be shut out from the bright sunshine and the exhilarating air of heaven; but the sight of the peasant at his cheerful employment awakens no such feeling. Labour such as his seems to be a blessing to him who is engaged in it; placing him in scenes where all that is fair is around him, and affording him that exercise so conducive to health and cheerfulness.

In early morning many of the flowers are yet sleeping, but some there are which expand then, and then only. Nor can we any more ascertain why some blossoms should revel in the sun-beams and others shrink from them, than we can explain the circumstance of their flowering in their respective seasons of the year. Why does the wood-anemone wait for the warm day of spring before it opens its delicate blossoms, and the lily of the valley flourish only in the warmer air of summer; while the snow-drop, equally fair and delicate in appearance, blooms amid the cold of winter or very early spring? You may have beheld the fragile snowdrop blossoming on some elevated spot which was quite unsheltered, and daily watched it, fearing that some of the rough blasts which blew over it would break its stem, and scatter its petals upon the wind; yet it lasted far longer than many of the flowers of the summer. So I have seen a friendship formed in early life, which he who gazed upon might deem too frail a thing to survive trials that shortly must assail it, outlast the friendship whose commencement in later season and more vigorous form gave greater promise of endurance.

But perhaps one of the greatest charms of an early country walk is derived from the pleasant scent of the air. The honey-suckle, the field convolvulus, and the violet, diffuse a fragrance so soft and grateful that the most delicate nerves are refreshed. The ground newly turned up by the plough has a very pleasant smell in the morning; even the grass and the green leaves have the fresh spring-like scent, which though it scarcely amounts to perfume, yet has a very pleasing influence. Surely the sweet scents of spring and summer, and the elastic bounding of our untired spirits on a fine morning, speak of the kindness of God, and ought to inspire that cheerful'.and grateful emotion which is a welcome tribute of love and admiration to Him who designed them for our enjoyment.

Have you, when gathering the summer nosegay, ever bound among it a branch of the sweet woodruff (Asperula odordla)? If you are yet unacquainted with it, I would bid you seek it among the pleasant woods where it blooms very plentifully during the summer months, bearing on its stem crowns of leaves which in spring are of the most tender green. They grow all round the stalk in what is called a whorl, each whorl having eight leaflets; and they are thickly set with small hairs, both on their surfaces and round their edges. It is from its roughness that the plant derived its botanical name, the word asper signifying rough.

The whorled position of the leaves of this plant renders it very similar to the common cleavers (gdlium aparine); but its sweet scent sufficiently distinguishes it. It does not emit this fragrance while growing; and I remember once when, never having seen a specimen of this plant, I set out to search for it in the woods. I several times gathered it, but finding it to afford no odour I threw it away in disappointment, concluding that I had not rightly understood the description I had previously received. I fortunately carried one piece of it away with me, intending, upon reaching home, to examine it more minutely. The warmth of the hand soon brought forth its sweet properties, and in the course of a few hours the room in which it was placed was quite perfumed by it. The scent is very powerful, and will retain its strength for some years, imparting its sweetness to any object near it. The sweet woodruff especially prefers the neighbourhood of trees, and you will find it most readily rising up around the trunks of old oaks, in such a manner as to need but little imagination to enable you to fancy it a ruff about them. The mould on which it grows is sometimes formed almost entirely of the fallen and decayed foliage of these trees. The flowers are of a
brilliant white, clustering in little stars in shape like the garden jessamine, at the top of a long stalk. The whole plant is about six inches high and extremely pretty, especially if seen through a magnifying glass. The plant is said to impart its flavour to vinous liquors; and its smell is reported to have the effect of driving away insects. There are two other species of woodruff, both very pretty little flowers, and similar to this in appearance, but both destitute of that peculiar fragrance which gives it its greatest charm.

Another plant diffusing a delightful odour while drying is the common melilot (Melildtus officinalis). This may be met with chiefly among bushes, and often flowers in the hedges at the sides of lanes and roads. The leaves are broader at the top than at the part nearest the stalk, and their edges slightly serrated (notched like a rose-leaf). The fragrance of this plant, though not quite so powerful as that of the sweet woodruff, is equally lasting; and when the sun, by absorbing its moisture, has withered its freshness, and it appears almost dead, this quality is in perfection.

But the most common instance of the sweet smell of dried plants is afforded by the hay-field. We walk into the pleasant meadows in spring, and are greeted by no perfume, except that smell of freshness which the green earth at all times yields; or, if there be a more powerful sweetness, it arises from some of the many-coloured flowers that are springing up around us, or from the blue violet or the fair hawthorn of the meadow-bank. But when the mower has cut down the grass, and the summer sun has dried its juices, then we experience that odour so grateful to the senses, which renders the hay-field peculiarly delightful, associated too, as it is in our minds, with the health and cheerfulness that so generally accompany the rustic labour of which it is the scene. The fragrance has been long supposed to arise solely from one species of grass, the vernal grass (anthoxdnthum odordtum) ; and it has been long proved to exist especially in the joints of the stem, and not in the flower of this grass. The scent of the vernal grass is certainly, when dried, more powerful than that of any other; yet it is now generally believed that other grasses assist in composing the scent of the hay; since even when gathered and dried separately, many others yield a degree of perfume.

Fragrant Quote for February 1st, 2012-A breath of Mint by Grace Hazard Conkling

A breath of Mint by Grace Hazard Conkling

What small leaf-fingers veined with emerald light
Lay on my heart that touch of elfin might?

What spirals of sharp perfume do they fling,
To blur my page with swift remembering?

Borne in a country basket marketward,
Their message is a music spirit-heard,

A pebble-hindered lilt and gurgle and run
Of tawny singing water in the sun.

Their coolness brings that ecstasy I knew
Down by the mint-fringed brook that wandered through

My mellow meadows set with linden-trees
Loud with the summer jargon of the bees.

Their magic has its way with me until
I see the storm's dark wing shadow the hill

As once I saw: and draw sharp breath again,
To feel their arrowy fragrance pierce the rain.

O sudden urging sweetness in the air,
Exhaled, diffused about me everywhere,

Yours is the subtlest word the summer saith,
And vanished summers sigh upon your breath.

What small leaf-fingers veined with emerald light
Lay on my heart that touch of elfin might?

What spirals of sharp perfume do they fling,
To blur my page with swift remembering?

Borne in a country basket marketward,
Their message is a music spirit-heard,

A pebble-hindered lilt and gurgle and run
Of tawny singing water in the sun.

Their coolness brings that ecstasy I knew
Down by the mint-fringed brook that wandered through

My mellow meadows set with linden-trees
Loud with the summer jargon of the bees.

Their magic has its way with me until
I see the storm's dark wing shadow the hill

As once I saw: and draw sharp breath again,
To feel their arrowy fragrance pierce the rain.

O sudden urging sweetness in the air,
Exhaled, diffused about me everywhere,

Yours is the subtlest word the summer saith,
And vanished summers sigh upon your breath.

The Birch Still By Margaret Warner Morley

But they got safely over the wobbly bridge, and went on through the forest,only stopping a few minutes to look at a birch-still.

A birch-still is a place where they distil birch-oil out of birch-bark. Do you know how it is done \ Well, you ought to, for you eat so much birch-oil. You don't think you ever ate any birch-oil in your life? Oh, but I knoiu you have eaten it. I am perfectly sure you sometimes eat wintergreen candy and other things flavored with wintergreen. That is, you call it wintergreen; but it is not that at all, it is birch. You see the flavor is the same, and it is much easier to get it out of the birch.

The way they do is to strip the bark from the young black-birch trees, — which of course kills the trees, and that is too bad; but they do it, and chop the bark into little pieces, which they put into a long wooden box with a zinc bottom.

When the box is full of bark, they put in some water, and fit on the cover, and plaster all the cracks with clay until the box is air-tight, — all but a little round hole in the cover that has a lead pipe fitted into it.

Then they build a fire in the firehole under the box, and soon the steam from the boiling water escapes through the pipe that is fitted in the cover. The pipe is coiled up in a barrel of water when it leaves the box, and is kept cool by a little stream of water which runs into the barrel all the time.

Of course the steam that escapes through the pipe is turned back to water when it becomes cooled, passing through the coil in the barrel, and finally runs out of the other end of the pipe into a bottle. There is birch-oil in the steam that goes over, and the oil runs into the bottle with the water, but being heavier than water it sinks to the bottom of the bottle. When the bottle is full, the water runs out at the top; but when it gets full of oil, they do not allow that to run over, — they take away the bottle of oil and put an empty bottle in its place.

Yes, I know that oil is said to float on water, and some oil does, but birchoil is heavy, as I have told you, and sinks to the bottom.

The people take the oil to the store and exchange it for shoes and calico and safety-pins, and all the things they need. The storekeeper sells the oil to the manufacturers, who purify it and make it into flavoring extracts, and then the druggists use it in making medicines and tooth-powder, and the candy-makers flavor some of their candies with it, and the perfumers mix it with other things to make perfumes and scented soap. A great deal of this oil comes from the North Carolina mountains, and is made in the woods as I have told you.

Well, when Little Mitchell's lady had looked at the birch-still long enough, they went on uutil they got to Blowing Rock. And this is a very wonderful place.

Fragrance Quote for January 31st, 2012- The Witch of Odors—Wood Smoke BY ELIA W. PEATTIE

The Witch of Odors—Wood Smoke

How can I name the scents that I love?—

Earth around the roots of flowers, A little child's sun-tinctured hair,

The dryad scent of a dawn with showers; The homely odor of baking bread,

Which seems a scent and a symbol, too; Apples with their imprisoned wine,

And raspberries drenched with dew.

I love the scent of a wild, wet rose,

The flower of the grape on a fitful breeze, The smell of frost, and an in-shore sea;

But there is an odor yet better than these, And that is the pungent, delicate tang

Of a magic thing we may all invoke, That speaks of shore and forest and hearth.

The witch of odors—wood smoke.

When the East awakes and wakens me

To summer's green or winter's snows, First comes the greeting to my eyes,

And then the challenge to my nose. I hardly know which I love best—

Slant sunlight through the long-leaved pine, Or the smell of smoke from my neighbor's fires,

The delicious tang from mine.

Maple Syrup Time from The history of Warren: a mountain hamlet, located among the White hills of ... By William Little

In the maple groves of Warren, and on all the hill-sides around the quiet valley, sugar fires were smoking, for it was charming sugar weather; bland and sunny overhead, frosty under foot, tbc sap racing up from the roots every morning and running back at night for fear of a freeze.
There had been a scalding and soaking of salt-buckets, a tramping through maple woods, augur in one hand and sap spouts in the other, a repairing of arches or the hanging of great five-pail kettles; sap pails and sap yokes to bring the sap, all in order; a crackling of dry beech limbs, a roaring fire, then a simmering and seething of the sweet maple sap in the kettles before it leaped up in white dancing foam only to be kept, from over flowing by being wallopped with a stick having a piece of pork on its end.*
Amos Little had a glorious sugar place on Beech hill, and his boys and girls,— for he had a large family,— were determined to have a sugar party. Young folks, Merrills, Clements, Bixbys, Knights, and numerous others came to the beautiful farm where George E. Leonard lives now. They had fun and frolic; rosy cheeked girls laughing as they stamp the mud from their thick boots, charming forms carried in stout arms across the little rill which now swollen leaps laughing down to the Mikaseota, sometimes called Black brook.

Tho great sugaring-olf kettle is hung on а pole placed on two forked stakes, by itself. The syrup, enough for all, is turned in, the fire lighted, and then thère is a rustic jubilee over the browning cauldron, as the fragrant steam grows richer and the color deepens from hue to hue of russet, till the syrup clings in double drops on the edge of the skimmer, and the hot fluid changes to delicious gum when poured over the melting ice cake. There were pretty lips closing over beech paddle sticks, und young John, Merrill and Russell K. Clement blistered their tongues and got laughed at for they could not wait for the delicious sweet to cool.
Their hearts were all happy, and what, sweet songs were sung in the dusk of nightfall, as the earliest, frog peeped from the swamp in the valley below. The sweet, songs of that day, alas, what were they? They are gone, they are forgotten, like the smiles and the roses of those who sang them, like the hopes and the affections of the youths who listened to them. The triumphs of the singers of those days and the popularity of (he songs, where are they? It is a lesson for us; but let us chase it out of mind. Be happy while ye may. We love the mouth of March, for in Warren it is the liveliest and most romantic month of the year. No tree does so much for happiness as the sugar maple. It brings more good cheer, more joy and frolic, more money into the pocket and more sweetness upon the table than all the rest of the forest trees put together.

Apple Pie-The gentleman's pocket magazine, Volume 3 By George Cruikshank, Robert Cruikshank

The gentleman's pocket magazine, Volume 3 By George Cruikshank, Robert Cruikshank

Cooking Pies with Mother-The Atlantic monthly, Volume 128

At our house pies were a real occasion fraught with happiness, and everything was as it should have been. Mother, distant far-away pretty mother, descended into the kitchen with a large red checked gingham apron, which flowed all over her pretty shoulders and gave size and matronly proportions to her otherwise slim figure. Her face became flushed with the happiness of manual labor. And I watched her with ecstasy as she handled the huge old range, dexterously shutting a draft here, opening one there, until the stove glowed in pride and a red heat of anticipated pleasure. Mother allowed none of the servants in the kitchen when she descended to make pies. That was what made the day one long day of satisfaction—revealing mother to me intimately, personally, as I saw her upstairs.

You who have never had far-away artist mothers can never know the long lonesome days that glide into each other endlessly. You can never know how ravenously I watched and listened and smelled during these fragrant, spicy hours.

After the fire-building came great bowls from the pantry; and together mother and I searched the dark, damp cellar for apples and jars of fruit. I clung to her hand and felt well-nigh to bursting as I thought how brave my pretty mother must be; for, while I was peering furtively at the dark places for spiders and black, crawly things, mother walked lightly and assuredly, clasping her hand firmly over mine when she felt me start. How I loved her for that!

When we came back laden with apples and jars of fruit, I always climbed up on cook's huge, old chair right next to the tables — something I never dared to do on other days, even when cook was in her most engaging mood. I watched mother empty jars swiftly; plums and pears and peaches splashing gayly into saucepans. It seemed to me mother's hands never looked daintier or more beautiful than when she took a pinch of this brown spice or a pinch of that yellow, softer stuff from the spice-jars. She hesitated and studied about each pinch. One would think she was hesitating over the browns in one of her great pictures.

Soon the saucepans were bubbling merrily on the stove, sending out cinnamons and spices from Araby, and mother was in the most delicious part of the pie-making — mixing the crust! I never asked to help roll. I did not want to miss one fraction of a minute watching the delightful process in mother's hands.

Gradually the whole room, the whole

world, seemed to be a rolling pie-crust. Back and forth it rolled, twisting gracefully, squeezing out from under the rolling-pin, farther and farther across the table. The whole room seemed suddenly to have become quiet, watching mother. The fire crackled less noisily, and the saucepans lowered their bubbling to a gentle simmer. They were watching mother and listening to her humming snatches of the 'Marseillaise' and gently thumping and coaxing endless pie-crust into delicate crusty sheets. Once in a while, she would pause and would smile happily, dreamily at me. I squirmed restlessly then, for I thought with a pang that to-morrow she would be my far-away mother again.

I watched her pour the saucepans full of spicy fruit into deep cavernous crusts. I watched her fit the top crusts over the pies, closing the steaming fruit into a prison of juicy fragrance. I watched her — oh, endlessly! It seemed to me I never could watch her enough on these rare, glorious days when I really owned a real mother.

As the brown crusty smell of baking crust mingled with the fruit and spices and filled the air with warmth and fragrance, my mother gathered me into her arms. She drew up cook's old rocker, and we traveled back together to other days, when mother was a girl, back to a tiny house in Southern France where there were sisters and sisters and sisters, and nobody ever got lonely, and mother's face grew very young and gay; gay, wet curls fell over her eyes as she told about the grapes to pick, and the work to be finished before a day was called a day; as she told me of spankings and great holidays. We laughed recklessly! The young, pretty artist-mother of mine was warm and tender. How I loved her, and how I longed for all days to be filled with large juicy pies and a warm regular mother!
Cooking Pies with Mother-The Atlantic monthly, Volume 128

Fragrance Quote for January 30th, 2012- Around the Fire Place by E. P. Powell

There is nothing finer in Spring time than a bonfire. It should be spelled bonne fire, that is a good fire, as it is in every sense of the word. Of course you know all about this. They are full of all sorts of sweet odors, and the smoke has a tricky way of chasing you about, and puffing memories into your face. It doubles back, and tumbles over itself to get at you, sending up your nostrils little sniffs that recall every year of your life. Twenty years ago you smelled exactly that odor, and sixty years ago you were in the old Blount lot, kindling stumps. Bless my soul! How the pictures rise! Will it always be so? Will the trifles of eternity call up every forgotten scene and thought of the past? Will we sit on the knolls of memory, while the hemlock fragrance rolls up the slope, out of the hollow, where the dear father is boiling maple sap? I can smell at this moment, in memory, the old straw bee hives that were kindled each Spring of my boyhood, on the asparagus bed. The little mother would say: "Be spry there, my lad, and bring the litter before the fire burns low—for the sparrowgrass needs ashes, or it will grow slim and tough.'
Fragrance Quote for January 30th, 2012- Around the Fire Place by E. P. Powell



Did you ever return home from a long journey, cold wet, and weary, and unexpected, after tea was over and the tea leaves ejected from the silver? Bright eyes glistened at the sight of you—perhaps more than one pair, and a silvery voice names the magic word "Tea." Out of some dozen of these instances did it ever occur to you— when the tea had been made for you alone—to partake a cup whose delicious fragrance had dwelt ever after on your palate, like a vision of paradise, and of which you have sometimes a difficulty of persuading yourself that it was not all a dream? Such an instance once occurred to me, not after a journey, but at a dining out. I left the animals at their accustomed wine, and followed on the track of the girls, some of whom were so full of charms that, had Hebe fallen sick, they might have supplied her place at the board of Jove without the fair nectar-bearer being missed.

An hermetically scaled canister was brought, containing a single pound ; not a leaden canister, but one of tin; not block tin, either, but the pure metal—thin, while, glittering, and crackling. Talk of the charms of an uncouth novel, indeed ! Give me the opening of such a virgin case, pure as it left China. It was not green tea, it was not black tea ; neither too young nor too old ; not unpleasing with astringence, on the one hand, nor with the vapid, half-earthly taste of decayed matter, on the other ; it was tea in its most perfect state, full charged with aroma, which, when it was opened, diffused its fragrance through the whole apartment, putting all other perfumes to shame. About an ounce was then rubbed to powder by my fair Hebe, and deposited in its broad, shallow, silver receiver, with just cold water enough to saturate it. After standing twenty minutes, hot water off the boil, as it is technically called—that is, free from ebullition—was poured on it, amounting in quantity to three quarters of a pint, and the lid was closely shut down on it, while the cylindrical-shaped tea cup was placed on the spout to catch the aroma thence issuing. At the expiration of a minute it was poured out (what a beautiful hand it was!) and the rich globules of essential oil might be seen floating on the surface—a perfect treasure of delight. A small portion of Alderney cream was instantly added to prevent the escape of the essential oil, and just sufficient of the brilliant, large, crystalized sugar, to neutralize the slight bitter. Oh, heavens ! to sip that most exquisite cup of delight, was bliss almost too great for earth. A thousand years of rapture all concentrated in the space of a minute, as if the joys of all the world had been skimmed for my peculiar drinking ! I should rather say imbibing, for to have swallowed that liquid like an ordinary beverage, without tasting every drop, would have been sacrilege.—Leigh Hunt.

Fragrance of the Veldt

The veldt attracted him; and he told himself that, with a home of which Joyce should be the centre, he would have a chance of reasserting himself, of regarding the drink-demon no longer as a jovial comrade, but as an enemy to be seriously faced. The prospect of returning to London to meet his old companions; to frequent his ancient haunts, filled himwith repugnance. There was a revivifying freshness about the clear frosty mornings of the veldt, with its scent of new-tilled earth and fragrant crops, with its illimitable distances, compared to which the memory of chambers in London was suffocating.
A daughter of the veldt
By Basil Marnan

That couple of days' journey was quite one of the most delightful experiences of my life. Our way lay over beautiful rolling country dotted with flowering mimosa, and here and there intersected with a dark forest-filled kloof; and bright-winged birds flashed sheeny from our path, and on every hand the hum of busy insects made music on the warm air. Yes, it was warm; in the middle of the day very much so. But the evening was simply divine, in its hushed dewiness rich with the unfolding fragrance of innumerable subtle herbs, for we took advantage of a glorious moon to travel in the coolness. Now and again we would pass a large Kafir kraal, whose clustering beehive-shaped huts stood white in the moonlight, and thence an uproar of stamping and shouting, accompanying the rhythm of a savage song, showed that its wild denizens were holding high festivity at any rate; and the sound of the barbarous revel rising loud and clear upon the still night air, came to me with an effect that was wholly weird and imposing.
A veldt vendetta
By Bertram Mitford

So the wastes of the veldt lie before us, as the old South African aphorism has it, as a land wherein there are "birds without song, rivers without water, flowers without scent," although the latter allegation is not quite true in fact, as any one who hassmelt the faint fragrance of the mimosa blossom and the sweetness of the " abend bloem," an evening gladiolus, knows. The unaccustomed eye ranges over long, hardlooking and serrated " bergen," or mountains, clear in their outline in the wonderfully transparent atmosphere of the South, and rests with comfort here and there on the dark shadow of a kloof or combe up which, it may be, the scanty remnants of a forest grow.
Good words, Volume 41
By Norman Macleod, Donald Macleod

The breezes of the veldt are warm and gentle, impregnated with the fresh fragrances of the Molopo, although, as he walks with rapid, almost running, footsteps, leaving the black blur of the town for the arid and stony areas to the west, a new wind meets him—a wind that is clear and keen and dry, the wind of the wastes that wanders for ever over the monotonous sands of the desert. It accompanies him as he walks as though to show and to whisper with gentle gusts that it knew of his intention.
The siege of Mafeking
By Angus Hamilton

It was almost worth the risk, though, to venture a little away from the hundred and one smells of the town out to the open veldt, where the fragrant mimosa was just blossoming. In the coolness of the dusk a soft breath of wind often brought the scent of it even into the town—and it was divine. There were late lilies too, whose flaming red chalices shone like spots of fire on the hill-sides, and formed floral homes for swarms of golden-green beetles.
How we kept the flag flying: the story of the siege of Ladysmith
By Donald MacDonald

Here from early morn till bedtime the children played, worked, sang, danced, wept, quarrelled, loved, and learned the lessons of life. And it was from the back stoep — where through the trellised woodwork of the verandah great peach-trees thrust their pink-laden branches, and the overpowering perfume of the waxy orange-blossoms mingling with the sweetly-pungent odours of flowering rose-trees and verbena-bushes was wafted insistently on the hot air — that their parents, in those intervals of leisure which came but seldom in their hard-working lives, watched the physical and mental development of their little ones, planned for their future welfare, and dreamed those ambitious parental dreams common to fathers and mothers, all unmindful of the doom which lay upon the land — the oncoming of that murderous civil strife which to so many humble, wayside families, living their lives out on the solitary spaces of the wide veldt-world, was to mean the severance of those closest earthly ties, dividing parent from child, brother from brother, so that a man's foes were to be, indeed,
they of his own household."
Divided: a story of the veldt
By Francis Bancroft

What is there about that marvellous African sunset glow? I have seen it many a time since, under far different conditions—under the steamy heat of the lower Zambesi region, and amid piercing cold with many degrees of frost on the high Karoo; in the light dry air of the Kalahari, and in the languorous, semi-tropical richness of beautiful Natal; but never quite as I saw it that evening, standing beside Beryl Matterson. It was as a *scene cut out of Eden, that wondrous changing glow which rested upon the whole valley, playing upon the rolling sea of foliage like the sweep of golden waves, striking the iron face of a noble cliff with a glint of bronze, then dying, to leave a pearly atmosphere redolent of distilling aromatic herbs, tuneful with the cooing of myriad doves and the whistle of plover and the hum of strange winged insects coming forth on their nightly quests.
A veldt vendetta
By Bertram Mitford

To these men this was in one sense an alien country. Through the dulled noises of London there came to their ears the click of the wheels of a cape-wagon, the crack of the Kaffir's whip, the creak of the dusselboom. They saw the spoor of a company of elephants in the East country, they saw through the November mist the springbok flying across the veldt, a herd of zebras taking cover with the wild deer, or a cloud of locusts sailing out of the sun to devastate the green lands. Through the smoky smell of London there came to them the scent of the wattle, the stinging odor of ten thousand cattle, the reek of a native camp, the sharp sweetness of orange groves, the aromatic air of the Karroo, laden with the breath of a thousand wild herbs. Through the drizzle of the autumn rain they heard the wild thunderbolt tear the trees from their earthly moorings. In their eyes was the mad lightning that searched in spasms of anger for its prey, while there swept over the brown, aching veldt the flood which filled the spruits, which made the rivers seas, and plowed fresh channels through the soil. The luxury of this room, with its shining mahogany tables its tapestried walls, its rare fireplace and massive over-mantel brought from Italy, its exquisite stained-glass windows, was only part of a play they were acting; it was not their real life.
Harper's magazine, Volume 126

The waggon track to Richtersfeldt leads northeast from Port Nolloth, and after a few hours' trek the sand veldt becomes thickly bushed, melk bosch, zout bosch, and many other fleshy-leaved aromatic and resinous shrubs densely covering the long, undulating slopes of heavy sand, the sad monotony of dark grey-green being unbroken except by an occasional lily-like flower of a brilliant scarlet; no sign of life anywhere, the silence unbroken except for the crack of the whip or the yell of the driver, the sand effectually deadening the sound of the wheels and the tread of the oxen. As we wished to see the whole of the country we were travelling through, we trekked only by day, quite contrary to the general custom of the country in the hot season; and as the intense heat made it impossible to move during a considerable part of the day, our progress was of necessity slow.
The glamour of prospecting
By Frederick Carruthers Cornell

Aromatic Spice Bazaar

Of all, I think the most curious is the Spice Bazaar, contained in a separate and more substantial building, the arched roof of. which is painted black and white, in arabesques notj easily seen within the deep gloom . of the bazaar. As you look in at the entrance, you can dimly discern that there is a central way open to the exit, which shines "bright as the gate of Paradise" at the far end. A pungent odour issues from the doorway, compounded of spices and gums from every land—a smell which consorts well with the cool atmosphere of the sombre bazaar. On the wooden shelves in front of the shops are ranged jars of ground colours, of spice, of chemicals, many of which glitter with weird beauty in this magic-looking place. There are blocks of alum and saltpetre, the blue-green of sulphate of copper, heaps of henna, the curious yellow colour of which seems tinged with black, lumps of odorous rhubarb, ginger, cloves, gums, and glues, and by the door of each store sits a Turk, who scarcely ever invites a purchaser. On the highest shelf of one stall an old man, with strong spectacles leaning on his nose, which was shaped like an eagle's beak, with long white beard streaming over his dull red robe, his white turban mingling with the curious dried roots and herbs that hung pendant from the roof of his bazaar, stood speaking concerning the properties of some drug he was selling to two persons — a good subject for a sketch, if a painter wished to show a magician discoursing of his art. In the gloomy light and aromatic air of this bazaar, imagination may more easily construct new Tales of the Genii than in any other part of Stamboul.
From the Levant, the Black Sea and the Danube
By Robert Arthur Arnold (sir.)

A few steps beyond we come to the spice bazaar, as it is called. This is the market where all manner of drugs, spices, gums and colors are sold, the latter in the powder. Frankincense and myrrh, rhubarb, cinnamon, gum tragacanth, yellow ochre, and the like are found there, while the air is heavy with the thick odor of endless drugs. There is a quaint, old-time effect about this bazaar that almost leads one to expect to jostle against Paracelsus, or the Little Man in Black.
The Home-maker: an illustrated monthly magazine ..., Volume 3
By Jane Cunningham Croly

The Egyptian or spice bazaar, besides being the most lofty and the finest of these covered ways, is perhaps to the eye of an European the most striking, from the vast collection of every species of Eastern drug and spice, arranged as they are with due regard to colour, and diffusing a delicious aroma through the air.
The Golden Horn: and sketches in Asia Minor, Egypt, Syria, and the ..., Volume 1
By Charles James Monk

he Spice Bazaar is contained in a separate building, dark and gloomy, suitable to the character of the place; it is the coolest and least crowded of the bazaars, and looks, with its ancient hook-nosed Osmans, like an assembly of alchemists perched amongst their mysterious drugs and herbs.
Bradshaw's hand-book to the Turkish empire
By George Bradshaw

This covered passage, with the usual cupboard-like shops and "mastaba," leads into a maze of narrow lanes, in each of which one particular trade is plied, or one class of goods sold. The spice bazaar is particularly interesting, and often more beautiful in colour than any other; cinnamon, cloves, nutmegs and aloes heaped around the merchant harmonise deliciously with his silk robes, and the bags, baskets and matting that comprise the furniture of his shop.
Below the cataracts
By Walter Tyndale

It is about noon one day as I leave my quarters in Khiva, to take a view of the bazaar. The streets are hot and dusty; the sun is shining fiercely; the grey mud-walls receive and again throw out the heat, so that walking through the streets is like walking through a baker's oven.
Out of this blinding glare you gladly step into the cool dark shade of the bazaar. A pleasant compound scent of spices, and many other agreeable odours, greet your nostrils; the confused noise and hum of a large crowd assail your ears; and an undistinguishable mass of men, horses, camels, donkeys, and carts meet your eyes. The bazaar is simply a street covered in, and it is altogether a very primitive affair. The roof is formed by beams laid from wall to wall across the narrow street, supporting small pieces of wood laid closely together, and covered with earth. It serves its purpose very well, however, and keeps out the heat and light.
With delight you breathe the cool, damp, spice-laden air, and survey, with watering mouth, the heaps of rich, ripe fruit spread out in profusion. There are apricots peaches, plums, grapes, and melons of a dozen different species, together with an indescribable array of wares only to be seen in Central Asia. Properly speaking, there are no shops; an elevated platform runs along one side, and men are seated among heaps of wares, with no apparent boundary line between them.
Campaigning on the Oxus, and the fall of Khiva
By Januarius Aloysius MacGahan

The odour of cedar-wood, in fact, is expanded throughout every bazaar; and the atmosphere of these places, in which are mingled the thousand different perfumes exhaled from the shops of spice-sellers, druggists, venders of perfumed gems and amber, trunk-makers, cabinet-makers, or coffeesellers, together with that of pipes unceasingly pouring forth their clouds of smoke, reminded me altogether of the impression which I experienced the first time I visited Florence, where the manufactories of cypress-wood filled the streets with an odour extremely similar.
A pilgrimage to the Holy land: comprising recollections, sketches ..., Volume 2
By Alphonse de Lamartine

But this is only one of the numerous bazaars that are to be found all about this congested district. There is another just across the Mouski, on the other side among the closely set houses—a deep lane that is even more easily overlooked than the well-trodden path to J. Cohen's. Search along the Mouski near this point until you find a green doorway that gives upon a dark and aromatic alley, whence waft all the odors of Arabia. It leads to the domain of spice, and through its incense-laden atmosphere the way proceeds to the scent bazaar, perhaps the most delectable in Cairo. But as you value your peace of mind discourage all offers of guidance. Who ventures into the bazaars attended by a dragoman of any sort invites extortion of the most barefaced kind. Go to the scent bazaar, by all means, — but go alone.
Egyptian days
By Philip Sanford Marden

Fragrance of Mexican Flower Markets

The Flower Market in Mexico.—Under the shadow of the cathedral is the flower market, rendering the whole neighborhood fragrant in the early mornings with the perfume it exhales, while it delights the eye with hillocks of bright color. This market is in an iron pavilion covered in part with glass, the lovely goods presided over by nut-brown women and pretty Indian girls. Barbaric as the Aztecs were, they had a true love and tenderness for flowers, using them freely in their religious rites, a taste which three hundred years and more of oppression, together with foreign and civil wars, has not served to extinguish. The most abundant specimens of the floral kingdom one meets with here are red and white roses, very finely developed, pinks of all colors, violets, mignonette, heliotrope, scarlet and white poppies, pansies and forget-me-nots. Such flowers were artistically mingled in large bouquets, with a delicate backing of maiden-hair fern, and sold for fifteen cents each. There is no fixed tariff" of prices, strangers naturally paying much more than the residents, and the sum first demanded being usually double what will be finally received,— a manner of trade which is by no means confined to the Spanish-speaking races. It must be remembered that although these are cultivated flowers, still they bloom out-of-doors all the year round. The women venders emulate their lovely wares in the color they assume in their costumes. The dahlia, we are told, first came from the valley of Mexico. The universal love of flowers finds expression in the houses, not only of the rich, but in those of the very humble poor, all over the town and the environs.
The Friend, Volume 64

These cities are fascinatingly quaint and foreign, with their beautiful churches, their lovely little parks, jardins and plazas, as they are called, and the interesting markets, so characteristic of Mexico. In every city there is to be found a wonderful flower-market, where soft-voiced Mexican women sell you gorgeous bouquets of roses, great golden narcissus, and fragrant gardenias; and a Thieves' Market, which is a junkshop on a gigantic scale; stolen and second-hand articles of every conceivable description are brought here to be sold, and here congregate the most picturesque and typical of the city's inhabitants.
Two bird-lovers in Mexico
By William Beebe

Our first visit Easter Sunday is to the flower market. It seems as if all the flowers in all the world are here to announce the Easter day, the risen Christ. Tall Easter lilies, stately calas, gorgeous roses, fragrant jasmine, and violet and heliotrope, make the flower-lover long to buy more than she can carry, for flowers are cheap in Mexico. As the flower market is in the shadow of the cathedral, only a few steps bring us to the main entrance of the beautiful building whose aspiring towers and stately walls have been mellowed by the changing seasons of two centuries.
Travel, Volume 13
By New York Central and Hudson River Railroad Company. Passenger Dept

No part of a Mexican market is more interesting than the booth, or it may be only a little corner, devoted to flowers. In the large cities the flower market is dignified with a time and place of its own.
The people who buy the flowers and the poor who may only stand and gaze with that look of beautyhunger in their eyes which one often sees among the poor, are quite as interesting as the flowers themselves.
The flowers of San Luis Potosi are rich and varied. There were great clusters of scarlet poppies, white poppies beautiful as drifts of snow, roses, candytuft, nasturtiums, lilies, pinks, a great variety of zinnias, great bunches and hanks of pansies in all their dewy splendor and a wonderful variety of immortelles.
A tour in Mexico

Flowers of almost innumerable varieties, from the gorgeous orchid of quaint and curious form and wonderful combination of colors, to the modest daisy, violet and tuberose, grow wild and in extravagant profusion all the year round, the range of altitudes meeting the requirements of all the members of the floral kingdom. The flower markets of Mexico Citv, which are chiefly supplied from the Chinampas or historic "floating gardens" established by the Aztecs on the surface of lake Tuxcoco before the coming of the Spaniards, are among the objects of interest most enjoyed bv the visiting tourist, and eloquently testify to the beauty and brilliancy of the Mexican flora. This countrv has been deservedly named "the land of flowers," for everywhere and all the year there are flowers of every hue and color.
The Americana: a universal reference library, comprising the arts ..., Volume 10
By Frederick Converse Beach, George Edwin Rines
The Mexicans arrange their flowers in bouquets and sets or pieces of the most marvelous floral architecture. At many of the stations on the railway are sold bouquets of jessamines arranged in large pyramids. Each flower is put on a twig, the twigs bound together around a nice smooth stick, which serves as a handle, some are arranged on palm or banana leaves like a fan with the same style of stick for a handle.
A very neat arrangement that is offered for sale at the stations is the stock of a banana tree or something of that nature. It is cut about a foot long, and the pulp center is hollowed out; then it is filled with jessamines. The ends are closed and wrapped with fibre and a handle is made of the same material, and there is a little trap door in the side with fibre hinges giving an opportunity to take the blossoms out one at a time. The moist, dark interior preserves the flowers a long time and when carried the tube looks about like a roll of music, in the usual covers.
But the funeral pieces which are found in the flower markets axe truly remarkable. There is every kind of figure, but the most common is the wreath; but its size! Think of wreaths four or five feet in diameter. They are not made on wire frames, but have a solid foundation, stuffed with straw, held in shape by coarse netting, into which are thrust the smaller flowers, then on one side is tied with bright colored ribbons an immense bunch of some large flowers, such as calla lilies or something of that nature. Such pieces certainly denote extreme devotion. Throughout the country a great many beautiful flowers grow wild, calla lilies, most gorgeous poppies and flowers of every size and hue, until one might think the whole country one great flower garden; or that the country was in preparation for a great national flower show.
Spain's lost jewels: Cuba and Mexico
By Thomas Rees

The Plaza Major, as before said, is the center of the city in every sense of the word. It is fully one thousand feet square and is beautifully laid out. In the center is the Zocalo, screened with groups of orange-trees, shrubbery, and flowers. Here, in a circular music stand, the military band gives concerts four times weekly, in the afternoon and evening. At the western side of the Zocalo is the flower market, whose perfume fills the atmosphere and whose beauty delights the eye. The market is presided over by pretty native girls, who importune you to buy the choice nosegays, and seldom is their entreaty in vain. The ancient Aztec was an intense lover of flowers; he used them in all his ceremonies, even to those of the sacrifice; the modern native has lost none of his affection for these beautiful emblems, and uses them on every occasion. The most abundant flowers seen here are red and white roses, pinks of various colors, heliotrope, violets, poppies, both white and scarlet, and forget-me-nots. These flowers are artistically arranged in large bouquets, with a backing of maiden-hair ferns, and are sold for fifteen cents each. The price, however, is not fixed, and one may easily purchase a bouquet for half the sum first named.
A naturalist in Mexico: being a visit to Cuba, northern Yucatan and Mexico
By Frank Collins Baker

On the lakes there are regular, man-propelled packets, which make trips from village to village and into the City of Mexico itself, bearing grain, vegetables and flowers. Tons on tons of flowers are brought into the markets of the city daily, for these are a flower-loving people, and Mexico is a blossom-laden land. Along the Viga Canal are located the famous floating gardens, or chinampas, from which Montezuma drew his supplies for the royal tables in Tenochtitlan. They still supply the vegetable, fruit and flower markets of the city, and the men whc work them are descendants of the Aztec gardeners who made them famous four hundred years ago.
The Rudder, Volume 25
edited by Thomas Fleming Day

Fragrance Quote for January 29th, 2012- The wonders of the world: a complete museum, descriptive and pictorial By John Loraine Abbott

"This sea of ice, which embosoms in its farthest recesses a little living flower-garden, whither the humble-bees from Chamouny resort for honey, is also bordered by steep lonely beds of the fragrant rhododendron, or rose of the Alps. This hardy and beautiful flower grows from a bush larger than our sweet-fern, with foliage like the leaves of the ivory-plum. It continues blooming late in the season, and sometimes covers vast declivities on the mountains at a great hight, where one would hardly suppose it possible for a handful of earth to cling to the rocky surface. There, amid the snows and ice of a thousand winters, it pours forth its perfume on the air, though there be none to inhale the fragrance, or praise the sweetness, save only 'the little busy bees,' that seem dizzy with delight, as they throw themselves into the bosom of these beds of roses.
The wonders of the world: a complete museum, descriptive and pictorial
By John Loraine Abbott

Fragrance of the Steppes

In the evening the whole steppe changed its aspect. All its varied expanse was bathed in the last bright glow of the sun; and it grew dark gradually, so that it could be seen how the shadow flitted across it,and it became dark-green. The mist rose more densely; each flower, each blade of grass, emitted a fragrance as of amber, and the whole steppe distilled perfume. Wide bands of rosy gold were dashed across the dark-blue heaven, as with a gigantic brush; here and there gleamed, in white tufts, light and transparent clouds; and the freshest, most bewitching of little breezes barely rocked the tops of the grass-blades, as on the sea-waves, and almost stroked the cheek. All the music which had resounded through the day had died away, and given place to another. The striped marmots crept out of their holes, stood erect on their hind legs, and filled the steppe with their whistle. The whirr of the grasshoppers had become more distinctly audible. Sometimes the cry of the swan was heard from some distant lake, and rang through the air like silver. The travelers halted in the midst of the plain, selected a spot for their night encampment, made a fire and hung their kettle over it, in which they cooked their oatmeal; the steam arose and floated aslant in the air. Having supped, the Cossacks lay down to sleep, after hobbling their horses, and turning them out to graze. They lay down in their svitkas. The stars of night gazed directly down upon them. They heard the countless myriads of insects which filled the grass; all their rasping, whistling, and chirping resounded clearly through the night, softened by the fresh air, and lulled the drowsy ear. If one of them rose and stood for a time, the steppe presented itself to him strewn with the sparks of the glow-worms. At times the night sky was illumined in spots by the glare of burning dry reeds, along pools or river bank; and dark flights of swans flying to the north were suddenly lighted up by the silvery, rose-colored gleam, and then it seemed as though red kerchiefs were floating in the dark heavens.
From Taras Bulba by Nikolai Gogol

"It is with a feeling of intense pleasure and relief that one leaves such a village, and rides out upon the wide, clean, breezy steppe, where the air is filled with the fragrance of clover and the singing of birds, and where the eye is constantly delighted with great sweeps of smooth, velvety turf, or vast undulating expanses of high steppe grass sprinkled in the foreground with millions of wild roses, white marguerites, delicate fiveangled harebells, and dark red tiger-lilies. Between the villages of Krutaya and Kalmakova, on Friday, we rode across a steppe which was literally a great ocean of flowers. One could pick twenty different species and a hundred specimens within the area of a single square yard. Here and there we deserted the miry road, and drove for miles across the smooth, grassy plain, crushing flowers by the score at every revolution of our carriage wheels. In the middle of the steppe I had our driver stop and wait for me while I alighted and walked away into the flowery solitude to enjoy the stillness, the perfumed air, and the sea of verdure through which ran the long, sinuous black line of the muddy highway. On my left, beyond the road, was a wide, shallow depression six or eight miles across, rising on the opposite side in a long, gradual sweep to a dark blue line of birch forest which formed the horizon. This depression was one smooth expanse of close green turf, dotted with grazing cattle and sheep, and broken here and there by a silvery pool or lake. Around me, upon the higher ground, the steppe was carpeted with flowers, among which I noticed splendid orange asters two inches in diameter, spotted tiger-lilies with strongly reflexed petals, white clover, daisies, harebells, spirea, astragalus, melliotus, and a peculiar flower growing in long, slender, curved spikes which suggested flights of miniature carmine skyrockets sent up by the fairies of the steppe. The air was still and warm, and had a strange, sweet fragrance which I can liken only to the taste of wild honey. There were no sounds to break the stillness of the great plain, except the drowsy hum of bees, the regular measured "Kate-did-Kate-did" of a few katydids in the grass near me, and the wailing cry of a steppe hawk hovering over the nest of some field-mice. It was a delight simply to lie on the grass amidst the flowers, and see, hear, and breathe."
Steppes of the Irtish by George Kennan

A STRANGE fable has currency amongst the Russian people; it is rather Oriental than Slav in its colour, and was probably brought by the Mongols from the highland desert to the lowland Steppes. Among these Steppes, runs the fable, a magic plant raises somewhere—who knows where ?—its tender blossom, everlastingly green, deathless, and freed from all the laws of growth and decay. So long as it grows and blossoms on the earth it cannot be perceived, for the reed-grass and the flowers of the Steppes lift their heads higher and hide this tender plant from view. But the eternally green flower becomes visible to any one who travels over the bald Steppes in the sad autumn, and even from a distance its fragrance assures him that it is the magic flower which he has seen. For this fragrance is peculiar to itself, and ineffably rich and sweet; it has not its like upon earth, to say nothing of its equal. And if any one breathes it the whole world is changed for him. He understands everything; what is dumb speaks to him, and what has speech cannot lie. Beneath the sound of a hypocritical phrase he penetrates to the most profoundly secret thoughts; animal, tree, and rock talk to him with tones that have a meaning; he overhears nature, and learns how she breathes and works and creates; he hears the song of the stars in their nightly courses. Yet every one becomes sad who has drunk in this fragrance; every one becomes sad, for—say the poor folk in the great plain —it is not a joyous song which vibrates through the universe.
(in Collaboratton Wtth Alexander Benots, St. Petersburg)

The travellers went for a delightful excursion from the steppes to the
beautiful lake of Dschasil-Kul, in Ala-Tau. A splendid vegetation, both as regards trees and flowers, rejoiced the heart of the botanist, and filled even the uninitiated with a consciousness of singular beauty and variety. In the valley were found tall, well-grown poplars, aspens, and willows; on the heights, conifercn, especially the Pinus schrenkeana. The wild apple trees were in full bloom, covered with a glory of rose and pale-pink blossom, affording a proof that the milder sky of a lower latitude was shining overhead (lat. 460 N.). The fruit of the wild apple is small, but pleasant tasted, with an acid-sweet flavour, much liked by the Kirghis. Among the apple trees, whose fruit ripens in July, grow a number of flowering shrubs, mingling their rich odours with the aromatic scent of the pine wood, until the air was laden with fragrance. From this point the steppes are broken by reed forests, in which succulent herbs and coppices of tamarisk abound. The reeds near the Lentek are very thick and tall. Among their green stems one catches gleams of the brilliant golden yellow-hammer {Emberiza luteola), and the deep red of the cherry finch {Carpodacus erythrinus), which flashes like fiery sparks to and fro. The graceful crane was as great a novelty to the eye as was the welcome song 0! the nightingale (Liiscicla pliilomela) to the ear, as it sounded from the reedy shores of the river. There was no lack of aquatic birds near every lake.
Land, sea and sky; or, Wonders of life and nature, tr. from the Germ.
By Hermann Joseph Klein, Otto Wilhelm Thomé

"Go forth," the semi-illiterate wanderer says, " into the highways, the fields, on the steppes, through the valleys and over the hills ... go forth and look upon the world from the point of view of freedom, from afar: virgin forests will rustle around you whispering in soothing tones of the wisdom of the Lord ; the birds of God will warble to you of His blessed glory, and the steppe-grasses will send forth fragrance as of incense to the Most Holy Virgin Mother of the Almighty. . . . Resting somewhere in the shadow of a bush, you will gaze up at the heavens above and they will descend by degrees as if to fold you in their embraces. ... A sense of warmth will come over your soul, a feeling of calm and of bliss, no desires will cling to your heart, no envy. . . . And it will seem as if throughout the wide earth there dwells none but you and God." *
Maxim Gorky: his life and writings
By Emile Joseph Dillon

Our train had left Winnipeg, 'the capital of the prairies,' in the afternoon. We had dashed for an hour, full speed, in electrical tramcars, along the streets of the big and decidedly nice-looking prairie city, which had grown up with American rapidity in less than twenty-five years. Then we parted with our friends; the engine-bell began to ring as the train rolled heavily in the limits of the city, and all of a sudden we had entered the prairies. A straight line on the horizon, another straight line behind us, marked by the railway metals, which run over a ground so level that the last elevator of Winnipeg could be seen miles behind. A 'fat black-earth,' as our peasants would say, and no trees or shrubs for miles round. Only a glorious sunset to admire, such as I had not seen since I was last in a South Russian steppe. 'How monotonous!' was soon remarked by my West European friends, while I thought to myself: 'What an infinite variety of life in these Steppes!' The poetry of the Steppe is an unknown chapter to the West European, even to the middle Russian. It would be vainly sought for in most geographical works; one finds it only in the poetry of Koltsoff, in the novels of Oertel, in the soul of the man who was born in the Steppes. One must have lived in the Steppes, rambled over them on horseback about and after sunset, inhaled the perfume of the mowed grasses, spent the night in the open air, crossed the boundless spaces in sledges with galloping horses, to realise and to feel the beauty of the Steppes. He who was born in such surroundings feels homesick elsewhere; mountain valleys oppress him, make him feel as a bird in a cage.
The Twentieth century, Volume 43

In the far distance the green tone of the steppe blackened as evening closed in, and each grass blade became a perfume-cup of aromatic sweetness; the great plateau came suddenly to life, and where solitude had brooded all day now resounded the cheep of the crickets, or echoed the swan's silvery cry. The thousand voices of nocturnal life began to speak, and a delicious breeze sprung up, under whose soit caresses the steppe rose and fell like a weary dreamer's breast, while the fire of sunset transfigured the meadows and hollows in a blaze of color as they drank in the glory of the heavens. Across the dark-blue sky, as if painted by some giant artist, spread bands of gold with red lights in them, which gradually faded away into cold grays as the shadows lengthened and the air commenced to chill. A hedge of white mist palisaded the Don, and the vast Russian steppe was swallowed up in darkness, until the great stars began to peep forth and blossom in the " infinite meadows of heaven."
Dimitri of the Don by Annetta Josefa Halliday

Sweet Scented Grasses of the Steppes By George L. Carrick

The Steppes
The sun, which pours its flood of fiery golden rays upon the river and the pine and birch clad hills before it sets, is soon succeeded by the dark, cloudless, southern night, with bright stars peeping through the canopy of heaven, and contrasting vividly with the surrounding blackness. From the funnel of the steamer, heated by wood, red sparks escape in myriads; they ascend high into the air, and twist and turn like fiery serpents as they slowly fall into the deep-flowing stream. At times a floating threestoreyed castle is seen moving on the river; it is one of the steamboats built on the American plan. Then the varied coloured lights that the ships and steamers carry shine like gigantic rubies, emerald's, or diamonds against the dark sky, and lend a still greater enchantment to the scene.

On reaching Samara, after several days' delightful journey by water, the patient travels either by train or equipage to the steppes. If the life which awaits him there is somewhat monotonous and dull, he is amply repaid for it by the delightful climate he enjoys. The sky is always bright and the air clear; and if the heat is somewhat severe, it serves the excellent purpose of making the patient drink large quantities of koumiss, and thus ministers indirectly to his cure. But the atmosphere during the hottest day is never oppressive, for there is always a slight breeze playing in the steppes. The nights are cool, moreover, and allow of refreshing sleep. After a few days' residence the invalid gets accustomed to and likes his new life and abode. Indeed there is a peculiar indescribable charm about the steppes. As the traveller mounts his horse and gallops through the high and thick herbage, he feels as though an ocean were before him, so broad and vast and boundless does the undulating, treeless, grassy expanse appear. This sensation is doubly strong with the consumptive patient, who has for months previously been pent up in close rooms and in a smoky city.

The invalid breathes deeply of the soft, velvety air, impregnated with the sweet aroma of the rich grasses of the steppes; while the gentle breeze which keeps continually sweeping over them softens the fierceness of the sun's rays, and fans the hectic cheek.

The nomad values the sweet - scented herbage highly, not because of the ethereal balm it contains, but as belonging essentially to the steppes. Chief among these aromatic plants is the small wormwood, or yemshan, as the natives call it. It is regarded by them with pride and tenderness, as the emblem of the broad, undulating plains they inhabit. For there are steppes without yemshan, but the yemshan cannot exist without the steppes; it grows there only. The sweetly-scented little plant, when shown to the nomad in a foreign land, has, it is averred, made the blood dance in his veins, and brought the tear to his eye. So say the Ipatof Chronicles of the twelfth century, and so sings Maykof in his charming poem called " Yemshan." It appears that Sirgan, a nomad chief, sent a messenger to his brother Otrock (who had been defeated by the Russians under Monomach, and had fled to the Caucasus), inviting him to return to his old home in the steppes. Monomach was dead, while Otrock had risen to be leader of one of the Circassian tribes; and his brother, not thinking that he would comply with his request, gives the following instructions (which I have taken the liberty of translating from Maykofs poem) to the messenger:—

'' Tell him towards home to bend his track,
For dead's our foe, and fallen our chains;
Say all you can to woo him back
To his own native, balmy plains.

Should counsels fail, our songs then try.
If they move not his spirit stern,
Some steppe yemshan together tie,
And give him it—and he'll return."

The arguments and entreaties of the messenger are uttered in vain, and even the music of his native songs fails to shake the Circassian chiefs resolution not to forsake his adopted country. When, however, the messenger presents a bunch of yemshan to Otrock, the latter is unable to master his feelings. The stern chief presses the pale-green leaves of the sweetly-scented plant to his bosom, then kisses them, and bursting into a flood of tears, throws up his new kingdom, and retires to his native balmy steppes.

Sweet Scented Grasses of the Steppes By George L. Carrick

Fragrance Quote for January 28th, 2012- Old Lilac Tree by William Thomas Davis

Fragrance Quote for January 28th, 2012- Old Lilac Tree by William Thomas Davis

How well I remember that old lilac tree,
Which stood in the garden near our back entry door;
No lily nor rose seemed ever to me
As sweet as the blossoms that lilac tree bore.

How gladly it welcomed the warm airs of spring,
As out of the west they swept down the vale;
How responsive it seemed, how eager to fling
Its banners of purple to the ravishing gale.

Like the honey bee sipping the sweets of a flower,
How oft and how richly my sense was regaled,
While sitting beneath my ivy clad bower
I drank in the perfume its blossoms exhaled.

The garden is gone, and the old lilac tree
Stands no longer by the back entry door;
But its fragrance remains, reminder to me
Of a home once beloved—but now no more.

The Fragrance of the Maquis of the Mediterranean

Maquis (French) or macchia (Italian: macchia Mediterranea) is a shrubland biome in the Mediterranean region, typically consisting of densely growing evergreen shrubs such as holm oak, tree heath, strawberry tree, sage, juniper, buckthorn, spurge olive and myrtle. It is found throughout the Mediterranean Basin, including most of coastal Italy, southern France, Lebanon, Sardinia, Corsica, and elsewhere.
It is similar to the English heath in many aspects, but with taller shrubs, typically 2–4 m high as opposed to 0.2–1 m for heath. Similar habitat types exist in North America, South Africa and Australia, and are known as chaparral, fynbos and kwongan, respectively, although the kinds of shrubs involved in these other habitats are different.
Although maquis is by definition natural, its appearance in many places is due to destruction of forest cover, mainly by frequent burning that prevents young trees from maturing. It tends otherwise to grow in arid, rocky areas where only drought-resistant plants are likely to prosper.
The word comes from the plural of Italian macchia (English "thicket"). The extremely dense nature of maquis made it ideal cover for bandits and guerrillas, who used it to shelter from the authorities. It is from this meaning that the Second World War French resistance movement, the Maquis, derived its name. In Italian darsi alla macchia means "becoming a fugitive".

Let us hope that the time is not far distant when the "Islette" will again be clothed in the fragrant beauty ot the Maquis! A few native plants have held their ground on the further end of the point, and at present there grow yonder. Cistus and Oleaster; Myrtle and Lentiscus spread out like cushions; while the silvery grev foliage of Helichrysum and the bright yellow blossoms of the Bird's foot Trefoil adorn the ground. But the paths on this rugged strip of rocky land are the one permanent advantage of this over cultivation. These extend to its further end and make it possible to reach the wild cliffs which disappear beneath the waves. Here you can climb from rock to rock, until at last your feet touch the blue water. There one can lie down, gazing into the crystal depths, and spy out the curious plant forms which the sea contains, and listen to the music of the waves which lose themselves amongst the labyrinthine passages of the rocks.
Rambles on the Riviera
By Eduard Strasburger

Boswell, who visited the island only four years before the birth of N., gives in his Account of Corsica descriptions of its natural features. "The interior parts of the island are, in general, mountainous, though interspersed with fruitful valleys, but have a peculiar grand appearance and inspire one with the genius of the place, with that undaunted and inflexible spirit which will not bow to oppression." The wild and uncultivated districts are overgrown with tangled underwoods, a riotous growth of arbutus, myrtle, thorn, broom, laurel, and various other fragrant shrubs caljed the maquis, the fragrance of which floats out to sea, and by this sailors would know when they were near Corsica if no other sign were to offer itself. This fragrance N. recalled at dismal St. Helena, and said that by it alone, even with blinded eyes, he would know his birthplace.
A dictionary of Napoleon and his times
By Hubert N. B. Richardson

It follows from this physical fact that in driving up or down the western side of the island one has to cross a pass of between 2,000 and 4,000 feet between each river basin. These basins, south of Ajaccio, are broad fertile valleys rising from the sea in slopes covered below with maquis, the Corsican bush, above with vines olives chestnuts and beechwood. Every one has heard of the ' maquis,' the scent of which, carried miles out to sea by the land breeze, warns sailors of their approach to Corsica. Imagine a common sprinkled with myriads of purple and white cistus blossoms, shining starlike in the pure sunshine, tall heaths, tough arbutus, frequent bushes of myrtle, box and other evergreen fragrant shrubs, which combine to diffuse through the light dry atmosphere a rich warm pungent scent. As the road winds up the spurs, chestnut groves and vineyards supplant the ' maquis,' dog-rosea hang down from the hedges to rival the acres of cistus, the asphodels, already withered on the coast, are still in bloom, beside beech-copses where foxgloves, tall purple orchids, and masses of common fern might, but for their classical presence, make us forget for a moment the Mediterranean.
The Alpine Journal, Volume 10
By Alpine Club (London, England)

The slopes of the lower hills are mostly covered with different varieties of evergreen shrubs with thick fleshy leaves. This type of shrub is sometimes collectively known by the Corsican name Maquis, and the plants here are known as those of the Maquis region. Myrtle {Myrtis communis), Arbutus in three kinds (Andrachne, Intermedia, and Unedo), Rhamnus (Rhamnus gracca), and Lentisc (Pistachia lentiscus) are frequently found growing together to a height of three or four feet, with little bells or bright berries shining among the heavy green foliage.
Ovid gives a fragrant list of the plants that grew on Hymettus: "The Arbutus, the Rosemary, the Laurel, the dark Myrtle, the leafy Box, the frail Tamarisk, the slender Cytisus, and the graceful Pine."
Below the hill region come low sterile slopes of limestone or mica. From the distance they look quite barren and are locally known as Xerovouna, or "desert hills." On approaching them we find that they are covered with small bushy plants of a type entirely different from those of the Maquis region. Instead of green fleshy foliage, these have small grey-green leaves usually covered with tiny hairs. These hairs protect the leaf from the rapid evaporation, which would otherwise scorch the tender surface. They enable the plant to absorb each drop of moisture slowly and to hold its own in a shadeless region. To the Greeks this type of plant is known by the collective name Phrygana, literally "fuel," for which the nearest English equivalent is "brushwood," but the English conveys something much less delightful than that which the Athenian thinks of when he speaks of Phrygana. These low-growing shrubs have a spicy fragrance comparable only to the sweetness of a Scotch moor, yet whereas the Scotch moor is fragrant of one plant only these Greek moors have a very symphony of scents. Heath (Erica arborea), Thyme (Thymus capitatus), Lavender (Lavandula stoechas), Broom (Genista acanthoclada), and Cistus (Cistus creticus and salvia/otitis), each in turn remind you sweetly of their presence while your feet crush their leaves.
Days in Attica
By Ellen Sophia Hodgkin Bosanquet

Now, all this adds immensely to the picturesqueness and grandeur of Corsican scenery, for the mountains rise in jagged outline, their peaks and pinnacles fret the sky, whilst their precipices are awful in their suddenness and depth. Add to this extraordinary rocky grandeur forests of superb Corsican pines and a dense and fragrant jungle of maquis, whilst snowy peaks glitter in a sky of cloudless blue reflected in the lovely bays forming the Corsican coast, and one understands the reason why every writer who has visited Corsica bursts into ecstasy as he describes its scenery.
Scottish geographical magazine, Volume 10
By Royal Scottish Geographical Society

The paddle-wheels struck the water, disturbing its torpor, and a long track of foam, like the froth of champagne, remained in the wake of the boat, reaching as far as the eye could see. Jeanne drank in with delight the odor of the salt mist that seemed to go to the very tips of'her fingers. Everywhere the sea. But ahead of them was something gray, not clearly defined in the early dawn; a sort of massing of strange-looking clouds, pointed, jagged, seemed to rest on the waters.
Presently it became clearer, its outline more distinct on the brightening sky; a large chain of mountains, peaked and weird, appeared: it was Corsica, covered with a light veil of mist. The sun rose behind it, outlining the jagged crests like black shadows. Then all the summits were bathed in light, while the rest of the island remained covered with mist.
The captain, a little sunbrowned man, dried up, stunted, toughened, and shriveled by the harsh salt winds, appeared on the bridge; and in a voice hoarse after twenty years of command, and worn from shouting amid the storms, said to Jeanne:
"Do you detect it, that odor?"
She certainly noticed a strong and peculiar odor of plants, a wild, aromatic odor.
"It is Corsica that sends out that fragrance, Madame," said the captain; "it is her peculiar odor of a pretty woman. After being away for twenty years, I should recognize it five miles out at sea. I belong to it. He, down there, at Saint Helena, he speaks of it always, it seems, as the odor of his native country. He belongs to my family.''
And the captain, taking off his hat, saluted Corsica, saluted down yonder, across the ocean, the great captive Emperor who belonged to his family.
Jeanne was so affected that she almost wept.
Then, pointing toward the horizon, the captain said: "Les Sanguinaires."
Julien was standing beside his wife, with his arm round her waist, and they looked into the distance to see to what he was alluding. At length they perceived some pyramidal rocks, which the vessel rounded presently to enter a vast, peaceful gulf surrounded by lofty summits, the base of which was covered with what looked liked moss.
Pointing to this verdant growth, the captain said: "Le maquis."
.. Complete Works of Guy de Maupassant
By Guy de Maupassant

A pleasant aromatic odour in the air was sufficiently strong to stimulate one's sleepy senses to realise the truth of the traveller's tale that the aroma of the Corsican maquis could be detected many miles out at sea. A distant flashing light also confirmed the fact that we were approaching our Eldorado.
The Alpine Journal, Volume 24
By Alpine Club (London, England)

Beyond this, almost from beneath our feet, stretched far away the wide sweep of Mediterranean, sparkling with countless flashes, and bearing on its laughing bosom the islands of Capraya, Elba, and Monte Cristo. Monte Cristo was but a blue cone above the waters; and Capraya, though larger, was cloudy and mysterious; but Elba lay before us majestically grand in the dappled sunlight, precipitous walls of barren rock and smiling hillside standing out in a fine contrast.
On the other side of the road, and rising steeply up, were rocky hills, well clothed with the sweet-smelling macchie; whilst, between every rocky rift, showed glimpses of wilder mountains, the inland chain of Corsica, raising their grey heads from misty veils of morning.
Macchie, in Corsica, is a word that means much. It is, literally, scrub or under
growth; but it is, practically, one of the most perfect garments ever woven by nature. It may be thick or thin, but is generally composed of a dense mass of shrubs, from two to four feet high, massed over and carpeted under by the richest and most luxuriant flowers.
The pink and the white cystus, the common weed of Corsica, which covers miles of country with its red or snow-white bushes on their sturdy growth, is the usual foundation of the macchie; but mingled with it are a score of other low growing plants, of various and often aromatic scents.
Here, by the Bastia road, where the hills sloped gently up from the road, the macchie grew closely; but where the grey and green and red rocks rose more steeply, the plants could only hang in the crevices overhead—here a cystus, and there a purple thistle, with the little crimson cyclamen peeping out of every cranny, and the bright lizards darting across the sunny stones.
Very beautiful was this first view of the Corsican rocks, and of the wide sea panorama of historic islands, each telling in silent grandeur its own history of adventure, heroism, or the stern freaks of fortune. The very name of Monte Cristo seemed to launch one into dim dreams of wild peril and desperate attempt; whilst the dark cliffs of Elba frowned in a stem harmony to their tale of the despotic emperor, whose heart for a time beat in impotent resistance against its prison walls.
What a satire it seemed, to place that proud, all-conquering Corsican on an island from whose heights he could plainly see the rugged mountains of his native land—almost smell the sweet odours of the macchie covered hills, wafted across his childhood's sea, from her to him!
A lady's tour in Corsica, Volume 1
By Gertrude Forde

Fragrant Memories of Foreign Lands By William Valentine Kelley

When you visit foreign lands you will be amazed at the great variety of experiences that may be crowded into brief time. Within a few months one man paid Vienna-exhibition prices for dust, heat, and cholera—and received for nothing the hospitality of the monks at Alpine hospices; lounged in the glittering parlors of the Grand Hotel in Paris, and slept in a damp bed of musty moss on a wharf in the Zuyder Zee; lunched in the rain among the driftwood of the Dead Sea, the lowest water-level on the globe, and ate hasty omelette in the hut of the Matterjoch, the highest human habitation in Europe; roasted eggs by putting them in red-hot lava in the hissing crater of Vesuvius and breakfasted on a glacier near Monte Rosa, watching the sun come up from behind the Strahlhorn; sipped sherbets on the luxurious cushions of soft divans in Damascus, and drank milk at lone chalets in high Alpine pastures; lay flat on the top of Cheops the Great Pyramid, dreaming over the vision of Cairo, the Nile, the Sphinx, and the desert, and leaned over the icy crest of the Breithorn, nearly fourteen thousand feet high, looking down on the dazzling prospect of snowfields and around on an Alp-rimmed horizon; saw the tall aloes blooming below the Athenian Acropolis, and the Soldanella Alpina swinging its frail bluebell in the very snow at the southern base of Mont Blanc; the oleanders bright red and pink by the sea of Tiberias, and the edelweiss, white and velvety, on the almost inaccessible peaks of Switzerland.

When you travel abroad you will feel a new interest in geography. The dead old study that you learned to detest in schooldays begins to live as you journey through lands which before were but patches of color on a map. History too moves into the region of reality as you visit scenes where great events transpired, and live them out in imagination on the spot. For example, the battle of Solferino is fixed in memory when you have looked on the scene where it occurred, riding across the space of fifteen miles, where, from Lago di Garda on the north to the village of Solferino on the heights to southward, raged that obstinate fight in which the Italians, aided by the French, broke the grip of Austria and forced her to the peace of Villa Franca in 1859. Arnold of Rugby maintained that history and geography could be taught only in connection with each other; both can best be learned by travel. Goethe thought the Hydriote shipowners gave their sons the best possible education by simply taking the boys around with them in their voyages to see and to learn. Nothing so enriches and illuminates memory as travel, and it enlarges vastly the mental sky, in which, often at mention of a word, suggestions play like heat-lightning around the horizon of a summer night. In after life a thousand things will start up reminiscences like a flock of quails. A fig will make a traveler see Smyrna lying on its sloped crescent on Asia Minor's coast. Dates revive the vision of Damascus, green and well watered on the desert's edge. Pour sweet-oil on your salad and the old olive trees shimmer their gray-green leaves in the sun, while it seems like the very essence of the yellow Orient itself that you are pouring, and forthwith the Mediterranean swings its shores through your memory. An orange can put one once more under the loaded boughs and in the scented shade of the orchards of Joppa. A small fig-banana carries me again through the Nile delta, and I see the naked brown herd-boys and hear the sakias creak as they slowly lift water from the river to the trenches to irrigate the plain. The smell of grapes is enough to anchor me off Chios, where the balmy air is spicy and fruity with odors from steep vineyard slopes along which the potent sunshine of summer days is stored up in tiny wine skins that hang in clusters of purple and gold, and where the sea is rippled with fragrant winds that whisper together like lovers loitering by rose-bannered garden walls. It was T. B. Aldrich, was it not? who said: "See here, three flowers pressed in one book. This white daisy I plucked one June on Keats's grave in Rome, in the shadow of the pyramid of Caius Cestius. This blue bell-gentian I found one July day blooming heroically through the edge of the snow on the Col de Seigne, in the high Italian Alps. This scarlet poppy I gathered one blueand-gold April in the green valley of Eshcol in sight of the towers of Hebron and Abraham's oak at Mamre."

Trees and Trees by Eldridge Eugene Fish

Trees and Trees by Eldridge Eugene Fish

Voice of the Flowers by Eldridge Eugene Fish

Near the clearing in the upper woods we came across a sandy knoll, the sunny side of which for a space of several yards was completely covered with the thrifty vines, all pink and white, and wonderfully sweet. The place had not been visited this spring, as the dry leaves, beneath which many a bright cluster lay hidden, had not been disturbed. The little girl was wild with delight as treasure after treasure was revealed by the removal of the leaves, and I confess my sympathy with her when she knelt down and kissed them in their fragrant bed and called them the " dear, blessed fairies of the woods." It was a sight to touch older hearts, and perhaps with a deeper feeling. I recalled the beautiful lines of the poet:

"We'll brush the last year's leaves aside,
And find where the shy blossoms hide,
And talk with them. We need no words
To tell our thoughts in. Winds and birds
And flowers, and those who love them, find
. A language nature has designed
For such companionship. And they
Will tell us, each in its own way,
Things sweet and strange—new, and yet old
As earth itself, and yearly told.
But there are men who have grown gray
Among them, and have never heard
The voice of any flowers, and they
Laugh at men's friendship with a bird.
But we know better, you and I,
Dear little flower, beneath the snow:
Let these most foolish wise men try—
And fail—to prove it is not so."

No other objects in inanimate nature touch so many hearts tenderly, like the actual presence of dear friends, as flowers. Not children alone, but men and women often look upon them as endowed with attributes not possessed by other inanimate objects. It does not seem out of place to talk to them any more than to talk to young children. A favorite flower found wild in a strange land drives away home-sickness and, like the song of a familiar bird, gives a feeling of companionship and content. The old nature-loving Greeks were not so far out of their reckoning when they endowed trees and flowers with attributes akin to those of men. Wordsworth says, "It is my faith that every flower which blows enjoys the air it breathes." Some late writers go farther, and have written books about the "Sagacity and Morality of Plants and Flowers."
Voice of the Flowers by Eldridge Eugene Fish

Old English wild flowers (1868) Author: Tom Burgess

Old English wild flowers (1868)
Author: Tom Burgess

Fragrance Quote for January 27th, 2012-Richard Rosny By Maxwell Gray

Rosny took the shortest way home, and opened the gate with that warm and intimate sense of comfort and peace that never failed him at sight of the cottage. Strange that hearts should cling to brown tiles and weathered brick walls in this tenacious way. The scent of the clematis tangled about the windows was a voice from the fairyland of infancy, the chimney's blue smoke curl against the lime-top's autumnal gold a breath of romance, the mignonette's sweetness a caress; the windows shining in warm sun, the trees, the garden, the fields, and the sea—all had kind and welcoming faces for him; no other spot on earth could have the same lasting lifelong charm. A lemon verbena ran over a sunny wall by the door and was rarely passed without a casual touch of its scented leaf, though it died down with the first frost every autumn; it was older than his oldest memory; its fragrance held all the poetry of life.
Richard Rosny
By Maxwell Gray

Genet/Broom(Spartium junceum) Absolute/Italy

Genet/Broom Absolute is a dark brown to deep golden soft wax(which becomes a pourable liquid with gentle heat. It displays a rich, warm, sweet, honeyed floral bouquet with a coumarinic(haylike)-herbaceous undertone of good tenacity

In natural perfumery it is used in high class florals(tuberose, orange blossom, violet, rose,mimosa, cassie,honeysuckle) literary perfumes, geographical essences(meant to capture the spirit of the land on which it grows), fruit notes, new mown hay bouquets,

Blends well with agalia odora abs; ambrette seed eo, co2 and absolute; araucaria eo; beeswax absolute; bran absolute; boronia abs; bois de rose/rosewood eo; cananga; cassie abs; cardamon eo,co2 and abs; chamomile eo's, co2 and abs; champaca abs; clary sage eo and abs; cubeb eo; elder flower eo, co2 and abs; guiacawood eo; hay abs; helichrysum eo and abs; kewda eo/ruh; labdanum abs and eo; mate abs; mimosa abs; myrrh eo, co2 and abs; osmanthus flower abs and co2; rose eo, co2 and abs; saffron co2; tonka bean abs; verbena eo and abs; vetiver eo, co2 and abs; bergamot eo; citron eo; lemon eo; carrot seed eo and co2; hop co2; fenugreek eo, co2 and abs; lovage eo and co2; opoponax eo and abs; cedarwood eo's and abs; fir balsam abs; combava petitgrain eo; tubrose abs; frangipani abs; jonquil abs; narcissus abs; violet leaf abs; sweet clove abs;

Olive(Olea europea) Absolute-France

Olive(Olea europea) Absolute-France

Olive Absolute is a golden grainy liquid which solidifies at cool temperatures displaying a rich, warm, green-fatty, herbaceous-dry fruity-oily bouquet with a delicate sweet undertone. This is quite an extraordinary new absolute for us with many interesting nuances

Used in culinary perfumes, sacred essences, herbal bouquets, geographical perfumes

Blends well with Fir eo's; pine eo's; spruce eo's; cistus eo and abs; frankincense eo, co2 and abs; labdanum eo and abs; poplar bud abs; aruacaria eo; guiacawood eo; saffron co2 and abs; black pepper eo and co2; pink pepper eo and co2; basil eo, co2 and abs; bay leaf eo and abs; bergamot eo; citron eo; lemon eo; lime eo; petitgrain(mandarin, combava, lemon, bigarade) eo's; broom/genet abs; chamomile eo's; hay abs; helichrysum eo and abs; mastic eo and abs; cabreva eo; sandalwood eo and abs; siamwood eo; carrot seed eo and co2; fenugreek eo, co2 and abs; orris root eo and co2; coriander eo and co2; ginger eo, co2 and abs; galangal eo; turmeric eo and co2; geranium eo and abs; juniper berry eo and co2; rosemary eo, co2 and abs; sage eo and co2; sage clary eo and abs; zdravetz eo and abs; mastic eo and abs

Coffee Flower(Coffee arabica) Absolute/Madagascar

Coffee Flower Absolute extracted from the fresh white blossoms of Coffee arabica shrub in Madagascar is a relatively rare absolute. It is a golden amber liquid displayig an intensely rich, sweet, ethereal floral bouquet with a spicy, chocolaty, vanillic undertone of good tenacity

It is used in high class florals, oriental bouquets, exotic spicy notes, garland perfumes, tropical bouquets

It blends beautifully with agarwood eo; nagarmotha eo and co2; vetiver eo and co2; boronia abs; cassie abs; mimosa abs; agalia odorata abs and co2; henna leaf co2; amber eo and co2; ambrette seed eo, co2 and abs; canaga eo; saffron co2 and abs; ylang eo, co2 and abs; champaca abs; cardamon eo, co2 and abs; coriander eo, co2 and abs; clove bud eo, co2 and abs; jasmin sambac, jasmin auriculatum, jasmin flexile and jasmin grandiflorum absolutes and ruhs; cinnamon bark eo, co2 and abs;; carnation abs; vanilla abs and co2; osmanthus abs and co2; kewda ruh; peru balsam abs and eo; fenugreek eo, abs and co2; opoponax eo and abs; lovage root eo, co2 and abs; orange blossom abs; karo karounde abs; ginger eo, co2 and abs; galangal eo; tuberose abs; frangipani abs; jonquil abs; narcissus abs,; violet abs

The beauty of a coffee estate in flower is of a very fleeting character. One day it is a snowy expanse of fragrant white blossoms for miles and miles, as far as the eye can see, and two days later it reminds one of the lines from Villon's Des Dames du Temps Jadis.
Where are the snows of yesterday?
The winter winds have blown them all away.
All About Coffee
By William Harrison Ukers

The tree was now in its full bloom and ripeness, exhibiting conical forms of about six feet in diameter, with leaves of a glossy green, acuminate, and slightly indented. The fruit grew from the bark about the size and shape of a cranberry. The branches were loaded, like the arms of an oriental beauty, with beads of every tint. Some with the beautiful white flower, similar to our white jessamine, in continuous clusters on the top of the horizontal branches; others with the fruit of every shade, from the palest green to emerald, then the rose, the crimson, and last of all a chocolate-brown the sign of maturity. When to the refreshing shade and stately appearance of the bucaris, and the graceful foliage of the coffee-tree, is added the exceeding fragrance of the coffee-flower, frequently perfuming the air for half a mile or more, the thick velvety turf beneath them, studded with flowers of the mosi gorgeous colors, and adorned
with little rivulets, deemed necessary to convey moisture to the roots of the plants, nothing can be more beautiful.

American agriculturist, Volume 3
And now we exchange Tea for Coffee. We are going down into the great valley of Dikoya. Descending the hill our Arab steeds show some reminiscence of their old desert fire, and we actually have to restrain their eager impetuosity. This is King Coffee's home. Here he does not appear consumptive or sickly. This is the blossoming time, and oh!—one cannot help an ejaculation at such a time, in such a place—oh, what a sight this Dikoya valley is in the coffee blossom!
"It's like snow." said the New Zealander; "well, I've never seen anything like this, even in New Zealand!"
What more can be said? It is like snow, but is without the monotonous white of snow. You look over miles of the beautiful dark green laurel of the coffee flecked with this rich blossom, and interspersed with clusters of cinchona trees on either side of the river, which runs down the whole length of the valley. It is not only the seeing faculty which is appealed to, but the air is laden with the fragrant perfume of the coffeeflower, and as we sit behind the "children of the desert," who trot along now (down-hill) as if impelled by old associations or by some hereditary instinct, we indulge in dreamy thoughts of "Araby the blest."
At home and abroad: a magazine of home and foreign missions

Coffee blossoms about six times a year, and it blossoms exceedingly freely. The sight of a coffee plantation when in flower is well worth witnessing, and the sight of several hundred acres in blossom once seen is to be remembered a lifetime. The perfume is strong, and the plantation is a paradise for bees and similar insect*. This is so well recognised in India that the coming of bees at blossoming time is regularly looked for as the omen of the crop that is to be obtained afterwards. The transportation of bees from one part of the country to another has been mentioned. Bee-keepers here may know the large bee of India, which produces an enormous amount of very fine honey. These bees seem to know by instinct that the time of the blossoming is about to arrive. They appear in countless numbers, swarming on the trees, cliffs, and rocks near the coffee estate, and will stay there apparently, especially waiting for the coffee blossoming, for they get away when it is over.
Queensland agricultural journal, Volume 16
By Queensland. Dept. of Primary Industries, Queensland. Dept. of Agriculture and Stock