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