Fragrant Quote for November 30th, 2012-Hot Potatoe and Chestnuts from Leaves from a life ... By Mrs. Jane Ellen Frith Panton

Hot chestnuts seller in Paris in 1908.

The greatest pleasures we had were the long walks we sometimes persuaded Papa to take us: these always happened after dark, as he never left his painting-room as long as he could see to paint, and to all the delightful things he used to tell us we added the romantic glamour of the dusky, badly lighted streets, the yellow gas-lamps peering through the low-lying, foggy air, and in winter the certainty that we should be allowed to buy ready-roasted chestnuts to put in our pockets, first to warm our hands, and afterwards to eat in the schoolroom; or the chance of meeting the hot potato man, with his red-eyed portable oven and his fragrant store of potatoes. He never ceased to be surprised at our refusal of his butter and pepper additions, but despite that we preferred to keep the skins intact and to put in the necessary butter with what we knew was a clean knife at home. Does any celebrated artist buy hot potatoes and chestnuts in the street now for his children? I wonder; but I rather expect the children would object even if he did not, and would insist on being taken to one of the up-to-date Bond Street teashops instead.
Leaves from a life ...
 By Mrs. Jane Ellen Frith Panton 

Fragrance Quote for November 29th, 2012-Corn husking from Prose pastorals By Herbert Milton Sylvester

Corn Husking at Nantucket

The unhusked corn in the great floors lies four or five feet in depth, and if not husked out rapidly will "heat," and the corn will become mouldy and worthless for man or beast. Invitations are sent out to the young farmer-folk to come to the husking. It is as much a season of merry-making as of work, and the invitations are eagerly accepted. But what a busy time for the housewife! What pots of baked-beans, what pans of brown-bread, and what dozens of pies of pumpkin, apple, and mince, go into the huge brick oven! what kneadings of pastry and of fresh, flaky crust occupy the intervening time of preparation! What bustling to and fro of matronly housewife and red-cheeked maid in anticipation of the household event of the year, and what secret errands the boys have run these last two days to the grocery at the "Corners"! The house breathes the delicate perfume of plum-puddings, of pies and pastry, and of steaming baked-beans, as if Thanksgiving had come prematurely; and what a dainty perfume it was! Lubin has no extract whose odor can approach it, — this Epicurean fragrance of a typical New England farm kitchen. Call it a smell if you will, but later years have found no substitute for the homely sweets of boyhood, and they never will for me. No blaze ever looked so cheery as that which gleamed out from the wide mouth of the old-fashioned brick oven, with its cord-wood sticks crackling so musically within, and when its fires went down, and the embers were raked out and piled up on the hearth of the big fireplace beside
it, what a dull red glow stained its overarching walls as they slowly cooled before the mistress should come with her brimming pots and dishes, which were, like the three worthies, to be tried as they never were before. What flavor, what piquancy of taste, the old oven lends to these viands of the true New England table! and to the boy and girl of those days they taught some very simple likings, but likings which were never to be forgotten, wherever their lot in life may have taken them.

Fragrance Quote for November 29th, 2012-Prose pastorals By Herbert Milton Sylvester

Kuh im Stall
Haying is over; the uplands were shorn of their blossoms a month ago, and the fragrance of the meadows has been stowed away upon the barnscaffolding for winter tid-bits for the cows and calves; and how eagerly will they reach out for the juicy blue-joint and herdsgrass as the farmer pushes the meadow-grass by their noses along the barn floor! What sweet breaths these coaxing cattle have as they stretch their necks over the low rail in mute appeal. But how eloquent was that appeal! I could never refuse it, and what good friends we were in those days! What friendships of barnyard and pasture-side we made as the huge forkfuls of yellow straw and corn-butts went out of the barn into its narrow, sunny yard, and under its sheds for the cattle to munch while they took their daily airing in the snowy, blustering winter weather. How warmly the midday sun shone out of the south when the melted snow along the roof of the barn came dripping down, hardening into long, shapely icicles as the afternoon grew, cooler, grayer, and shorter with the sundown!
Prose pastorals
 By Herbert Milton Sylvester

Laura E. Richards, in the Silver Crown.

期盼 (qipan) - 押花 Pressed flowers

A plant grew up in the spring and spread its leaves and looked abroad, rejoicing in its life. “To grow," said the plant, “to be beautiful and gladden the eyes of those who look on me-—this is life. The Giver of it be praised."
Now the plant budded and blossomed; lovely the blossoms were, and sweet, and people plucked them joyfully.
“This is well," said the plant. "To send beauty and fragrance hither and thither, to sweeten the world even a little-—this is life. The Giver of it be praised!"
Autumn came, and the plant stood lonely, yet at peace. "One cannot always be in blossom," it said. "One has done what one could, and a little is part of the whole."
By and by came a gatherer of herbs, and cut the green leaves from the plant. “They are good for bruises," he said; “or, distilled, their juice may heal an inward wound."
The plant heard and rejoiced. “To heal!” it said. “That is even better than to gladden the eåyes. The Giver of this, too, be praisedl"
Now it was winter. The dry stalk stood in the field, and crackled with the frost, its few remaining leaves clinging black and shriveled about it.
“All is over now," said the plant. “There must be an end to everything.”
But now came a poor soul, shivering with the cold, and took the dry plant and carried it to her home; and, breaking it in pieces, laid the fragments on her naked hearth and set fire to them. Pufll The dry stalks crackled into flame and blazed up merrily, filling the room with light and warmth.
“And is this death ?" said the plant. “The Giver of all be praised !"——Laura E. Richards, in the Silver Crown.

Fragrant Quote for November 28th- Snow Flakes by Nathaniel Hawthorne

 Log Fire

How does Winter herald his approach? By the shrieking blast of latter autumn, which is Nature's cry of lamentation, as the destroyer rushes among the shivering groves where she has lingered, and scatters the sear leaves upon the tempest. When that cry is heard, the people wrap themselves in cloaks, and shake their heads disconsolately, saying, "Winter is at hand!" Then the axe of the woodcutter echoes sharp and diligently in the forest; then the coal-merchants rejoice, because each shriek of Nature in her agony adds something to the price of coal per ton; then the peat-smoke spreads its aromatic fragrance through the atmosphere. A few days more; and at eventide, the children look out of the window, and dimly perceive the flaunting of a snowy mantle in the air. It is stern Winter's vesture. They crowd around the hearth, and cling to their mother's gown, or press between their father's knees, affrighted by the hollow roaring voice, that bellows a-down the wide flue of the chimney. It is the voice of Winter; and when parents and children bear it, they shudder and exclaim, "Winter is come! Cold Winter has begun his reign already!"

"Bruder und Schwester mit Dackel auf dem Arm im Schnee"



Sweetest of all the flowers
Are those that grew long ago;
Still in my memory freshly
Do breezes of childhood blow.
Blue are the skies as ever,
And full is the rich perfume
That wafts from the bygone summer,
Where grandmother's posies bloom.
The pink and the white sweet-william—
A gentle and stately warden
Grew close by the low stone door step
In grandmother's quaint old garden.
Tall are the tiger lilies,
With spotted and anthered face;
Their beauty is fierce and flaming-
Poets have sung their grace.
They stand by the many paned window,
Their heads reach the window seat;
No other flower blooms near them,
Grass grows around their feet.
Lonely and haughty and lovely,
A rival they could not pardon
That dared to grow in their sunlight
In grandmother's quaint old garden.
Meekest of all the blossoms,
How should I e'er forget
Your tender, insidious fragrance,
O pale little mignonette?
See where it grows in a circle,
And near it the marigolds yellow,
Each shaking its slender leaflets
And whispering to its fellow.
Even the pink wild roses,
Creep by the gentle warden,
And add to the color and perfume
Of grandmother's quaint old garden.
Here grow the morning glories,
Here the stout hollyhocks,
Here are the purple foxgloves
And crimson-striped four o'clocks.
Slender and bright coreopsis,
Little dear ladies' delights,
And the gay yellow evening primrose
That stays out so late o'nights.
My hand must forget its cunning,
My heart must begin to harden,
E'er I forget your beauties,
O grandmother's quaint old garden.
Eleanor IV. F. Bates.

Pomanders-Golden Apples of the Sun

Rosary with pomander.
Pomanders-Golden Apples of the Sun

Tree Symbols The Indigenous People of the United States

One of the many Native Alaskan totem poles on display at Sitka National Historical Park, Alaska.


Tree Symbols
The Indigenous People of the United States

The Monk of St. Saba from Oriental Fairy Tales

Bunting on a Limb
The Monk of St. Saba from Oriental Fairy Tales

Violets by N. Hudson Moore

Violets by N. Hudson Moore

The Solitary Flower

A Cloudy Day. Bluebonnets near San Antonio, Texas, 1918

The Solitary Flower

It sometimes happens that seed of flowers falls where none would look for it, and that flowers grow where no eye ever sees them; but on the sky these words are written: "No flower is blooming in vain." So it happened that a flower opened its blue eye, close to the roadside, among sand, and stones, and thorny shrubs, just when the sun was rising.
"Good morning, Flowret," the Sun said, " what are you doing there?"
"I only am blooming and spreading my odour."
"Not worth the trouble; nobody can see you here, and nobody smells your perfume: nay, nobody gathers you even. Now, you should see the flowers yonder, in the gardens of the Sultan. I just see them awake from their sleep: they are leading a magnificent life, quite different to what you will do. The gardener's hand nurses them carefully; they are reflecting their laughing beauty in the water of clear fountains,—the brightest eyes look down upon them,—the softest hands gather them at last,—and after a beautiful life they die a beautiful death in vases of gold or precious stones, or, what is more beautiful still, in the girdle of some young sultana."
"It must be very fine indeed," said the Flower by the roadside. "I am glad they are so happy; and how could it be otherwise 1—on the sky there is written: 'No flower is blooming in vain.'"
The Sun laughed at this simple sagacity, and passed on.
A horseman rode past, the first to-day, and the Flower welcomed him with its perfume. His face brightened, he waved his hand, and said:
"Blue eye of her I love, I greet you,"—spurred his horse, passed, and gathered it not; and the muezzin called the hour from the minaret of the neighbouring town.
A foot-passenger came, and saw the Flower.
"How sweetly you smell; how delicate is the colour of your chalice !" he said, bending over it. "You tremble at my touch. Oh, do not fear me, I shall not cruelly injure you. What should become of you on my solitary dusty path, in my burning and weary hand.  Bloom on, sweet Flower by the roadside, you did not open for me."
And on he went, and broke it not; and the muezzin called the hour from the minaret.
Two wanderers came. One of them carried a tin box, filled with dead flowers—a whole cemetery, indeed, he was running about with; the second, however, carried only his merry young heart through the world.
The blue Flower saw the cemetery from afar, shuddered, and turned away.
"Oh, such a grave I should not like to have," the Flower whispered.
The grave-digger now called the Flower by a barbarous name, that sounded like dry leaves with which the wind is playing,—the Flower had never heard it.
"Oh, that is not my name: go on, I am not called so," it said, trembling. "What a dear, blue-eyed thing! how did it come here, at the roadside?" said the second -wanderer, who only now remarked it.
"I will put it into my botanical collection; go out of my way, friend."
"Beware !" thundered the other. "Have not you robbed Asia of all its flowers already, and yet you cannot spare this poor solitary flower? Have not you whole pyramids of flower-mummies at home, and yet you cannot let this dear little thing enjoy its short life? Get you gone, I say; this eastern beauty 1 take under my protection; this lady is too fair for your tin flower-coffin."
Then both went away laughing, but gathered it not, and the muezzin called the hour from the minaret.
"Ah, a blue stone, blue like a sapphire, upon my honour," said a short-sighted collector of stones, who was fetching stones from all parts of the world; and he rushed upon it so hastily that he had nearly destroyed it, for his learned spectacles fell from his nose in his hurry, and he only now saw this lonely child of nature.
"Pooh! nothing but a wretched flower," he said, and felt too much contempt to look at it any more. He put on his spectacles again, continued his way, but gathered it not, and the muezzin called the hour from the minaret. ,
Higher and higher rose the Sun, prouder and
prouder it laughed at the poor solitary Flower at the roadside.
Many busy merchants came this way: they were talking loudly and vehemently, but not one of them took any notice of the solitary Flower, or remarked its perfume. The camel, the horse, the mule passed the spot, but not one of them did so much as bend down the head to it.
"Yes, if it had been a thistle I should have eaten it," said the Camel, "but so, it is not worth the trouble of stooping down to it."
"Thanks to Heaven that I am a flower," said the modest perfume-giver; "often already the muezzin has been calling the hour from the minaret, but on the sky there is written: 'No flower is blooming in vain.'"
Slowly the Evening rose from the valleys, saw the burning eyes of Afternoon scorching the ground, and drove it away from the land, chasing it beyond the summits of the mountains, and beyond the blue sea, then shook its own locks till the bright dewdrops fell from them. And now, placing itself before its own famous easel, Evening, the great painter, began to paint the sky with rosy red and gold, with light green, violet, and purple. To the Flower it said, looking down from its work:
"Well, Blue-eye, are you awake still.  Now I paint the sky much more beautiful still for your sake. Look here."

But because he did it so surpassingly lovely, the Sun grew red with anger, and went down. Evening laughed at it, till, dying of the excitement, it sank into the arms of Night. The Flower beheld it all, continued blooming and spreading its perfume, smiling into the face of Night. The mild lip of Night kissed the flower gratefully, and said:
"What have you been doing here at the roadside the whole of the day, my solitary Flower 1"
"Blooming and spreading my perfume."
"And what are you waiting for here in the hour of night?"
"For the end of my bloom and my perfume."
Night now opened its wide mantle, and pressed the Flower to the heart. Under this wide mantle the Flower now saw sparkling star by star.
"Who are those?" it asked the Night; it had lived but a single day, and did not know the stars.
"Those are the flowers of the sky, that open when the flowers of earth close."
Brightly shone the flowers of heaven, silvery blue, like the tear of night in the eye of the solitary Flower.
And the Stars above said,—
"There is a Star fallen upon the earth; see how it sparkles far below on the yellow road."
"Come," said the Night to the Flower, "the end of your bloom and your perfume is come. Here below your eye closes, there above it opens again. The hour of morning will find you faded here below, but every night wakes your eye with a kiss there above. Of solitary, forlorn flowers heaven makes its stars; of their lost bloom and perfume heaven weaves their rays."
The Flower smiled once more, and said,—
"I knew it. On the sky there is written—' No flower is blooming in vain.'"
Then it bent its little head, and died; but in the same moment a new star flashed from the dark-blue sky. Night has said it—
"As often as a flower of earth closes, a flower of heaven opens."

Perfume Worship in all Ages

Grabkammer des Nebsen
Perfume Worship in all Ages

herbal cosmetics in ancient india

Abu'l Hasan and Mansur Squirrels in a Plane Tree
herbal cosmetics in ancient india

Folklore and Cosmetic Uses of Salvia/Sage species

Rock formations along the road to Ashwood.

Folklore and Cosmetic Uses of Salvia/Sage species

Fragrance Quote for November Mystery of the Conifers-by Ellen Burns Sherman

Romantic Landscape with Spruce

Who, again, for any mercenary values would surrender his memories of forests, where hemlock, spruce, pine, balsam and woodland blossom mingle their incense with woodland mystery?
Related in its wholesome purity to the fragrance of the morning and the forest is the fresh odorless odor which one brings in on one's clothes and person after a long walk on a cold winter day. What white is to the colors, this fragrant freshness is to the more positive perfumes. Windows that have just been washed and linen dried in the wind and sun also acquire this wholesome redolence, a redolence which one might reasonably fancy is psychically duplicated by the aura of a clean soul.
Mystery of the Conifers-by Ellen Burns Sherman

Pine Trees: Facts, Meanings, and Culture of the Great Evergreen

松林図・右隻 (Pine Trees / right hand screen)

 Pine Trees: Facts, Meanings, and Culture of the Great Evergreen

Rowan Tree


The Wisdom of Trees in the Celtic Landscape

Fragrance Quote for November 26th, 2012-from Hampshire: its past and present condition, and future prospects By Robert Mudie

Oaks at the Sea Shore

Toward the upper part of this bay the shores slope gradually, and the soil consists, in great part, of sand; but this is, in some sort compensated by the carpet of ground roses which nature has spread thickly over the surface, and which, when they are in flower, have a very delightful fragrance; they are low and creeping, and have more the appearance of being pencilled on the ground, than that of ordinary rose-trees, even the common wild roses which climb in the hedges. This, however, takes nothing from their beauty; and their quiet situation, together with a southern sun, exhaling their fragrance, and the fresh air, at the same time, stealing gently up from the sea to replace that which the heat elevates, render the place exceedingly delightful. This is not diminished by the amphitheatre of heights which swell around, clothed with verdure, and enriched by little groves; and the small parish church of St Brelade, standing near the water-edge, which is said to be the oldest in the island, and which is in the most simple and primitive style, without tower, or spire, or other ornament, gives a finish to the scene, and makes one fancy one's self in a land of the most primeval innocence. Though upon a smaller scale, this bay far exceeds in simple beauty the bay of St. Aubin's, with its town, its towers, and its other insignia of the bustle and warfare of human beings; for, though this is at so small a distance, yet passing from the one to the other is like a transition from the turmoil of the busy world to the repose and peace of an Eden.
 Hampshire: its past and present condition, and future prospects
 By Robert Mudie

Why is a specific flower offered to a Deity?


 Why is a specific flower offered to a Deity?

Buddha statues, incense and flowers offering at the entrance of the lower Pak Ou Cave


Divinity in Bud
The EarthScholars, invited to address wetland scientists in Cambodia, followed their noses to a stunning floral tradition of Theravada Buddhism.

Fragrant Quote for November 25th, 2012-Rutherford Platt The Great American Forest

Jules Le Coeur et ses chiens

“The crunch and quiver of the ground underfoot, the swish of leaves around the ankles, the earthy fragrance, make the forest peculiarly sensuous and personal. Leaves on the trees had been far away and out of reach, blended in the green clouds of the forest canopy. But now, looking down at the details of the fresh carpet, the outlines of individual leaves attract the eye. No artist could draw more glamorous points, curves, waves and angles.”
Rutherford Platt
The Great American Forest

Fragrant Quote for November 24th, 2012-China collecting in America, Volume 3 By Alice Morse Earle

Crown of New England

A thin, auburn-haired, freckle-faced Yankee, about twenty-one years old, answered our questions with the greatest interest, and finally offered us the use of his own horse and open wagon for the whole day for two dollars. "And I'll drive fer ye, too," he added, with enthusiasm. "Ye'd never find old Hartington's if ye took the hoss yerself, an' I do' 'now as I can neither, without some pretty tall huntin' and questionin'."
So off we started on the back seat of an open country "express wagon " to find "old Hartington's farm." The warm October sun streamed down upon us, the great red and russet rock-broken fields stretched off into the beautiful lonely purple mountain, "heeding his sky affairs," the dying brakes and weeds sent forth their sweet nutty autumn fragrance, the soft yellow and brown leaves fluttered down on us, and the ripe chestnut burrs fell rustling by our side as we rode through the narrow wood-roads. The hard New England landscape was softened and Orientalized by the yellow autumn tints. The half-sad stillness of dying nature and the warmth of the Indian summer inclined us to ride quietly and thoughtfully along the country roads, but that neither Mr. Simmons, nor his new wagon, nor Jenny, his steed, would for a moment permit. She had the unpleasant habit, so common among country horses, of " slacking-up " suddenly at the foot of every hill. The wagon was a " jump-seat," so the back seat was not fastened in securely. At every hill (and the New England hills are countless) we and the seat were pitched forward on Mr. Simmons's back. He seemed to expect this assault and rather enjoy it. To quite counterbalance this sudden stoppage of progression, Jenny would spring forward with much and instantaneous speed whenever she caught sight of Mr. Simmons's short whip. This whip he used as a pointer in his many and diffuse explanations, so whenever our attention was called to an old house, or a poor "run-out" farm, or "the barn old White hung himself in," Jenny emphasized the explanation with a twitch of our necks that brought into active play muscles little used before.

China collecting in America, Volume 3

 By Alice Morse Earle

Fragrant Quote for November 23rd-2012-The garden of a commuter's wife By Mabel Osgood Wright

Avenue in the Park of Schloss Kammer
Then we three strolled down toward the long walk to take the first step toward capturing the Garden of Dreams, that I might live my life in it. A song sparrow sang merrily, a bluebird purled away from the Mother Tree, the soft bright air bore the fragrance of Russian violets, and a bit of the tangle was gay with the hardy pompon chrysanthemums, tawny, red, yellow, pink, and white. My heart beat joyously, for love held me by either hand, and before me there was work to be done, and work is life. Still it is the first day of November! Fie upon you, melancholy autumn poets!
The garden of a commuter's wife
 By Mabel Osgood Wright

Plant Lore-Birch

Wintergewitter. Signiert. Öl auf Leinwand,

Plant lore, legends, and lyrics: Embracing the myths, traditions ...
By Richard Folkard

Dictionary of plant lore
By Donald Watts

Old-Time Country Wisdom & Lore: 1000s of Traditional Skills for Simple Living
By Jerry Mack Johnson

Trees in Anglo-Saxon England: literature, lore and landscape
By Della Hooke

Discover Nature in Winter
By Elizabeth P. Lawlor

Tree cultures: the place of trees and trees in their place
By Owain Jones, Paul J. Cloke

The Wisdom of Trees
By Jane Gifford

Fragrance Quote for November 22th, 2012-The Open Court, Volume 22

 Incense burner (botafumeiro) in motion, Santiago de Compostela, Spain.aption

After singing the Hymn of the day the choir chants the Magnificat or Canticle of the Blessed Virgin during which the priest goes to the center of the altar and, assisted by an attendant, puts on the cope, a flowing garment of yellow reaching nearly to the ground. Blessing the incense and filling the censer which is now brought to him, he slowly mounts the steps and incenses the altar. After the Antiphon of the Blessed Virgin is said, following the incensing of the altar, the priest goes up to the tabernacle, kneels and takes out a small gold locket which he places in the center of the monstrance, a large circular vessel of gold in the form of an upright sun. Descending to the foot of the altar, he again fills the censer and incenses the Host which is now contained within the monstrance. When the choir has finished the Hymn the priest chants briefly. He then kneels, and a white veil or robe embroidered with gold and long enough to cover his hands is spread across his shoulders by an attendant. Ascending to the altar he kneels and then rising spends a few moments in adjusting the veil in such a way as to permit him to grasp the shaft of the monstrance firmly. Presently he turns wrapt in the mantle with the vessel raised and clasped in both hands and faces the people. As he raises it upward, following it devoutly with his eyes, every head is bowed and save for the measured clank of the swinging censer the silence is absolute. After a moment we steal a look at him from between our parted fingers and over the bowed heads of the congregation—a shaft of crimson light strikes diagonally across his white robe like an arrow of blood from the western window. His figure arrayed in the flowing costume of white and gold seems mystical and unreal. His face, lifted to the elevated Host is tense and transfigured by the extraordinary solemnity of the moment. The sweet pungent fumes of burning incense recalling old and sacred associations, float across to us from the sanctuary enclosure. An altar bell strikes a soft, musical chime and almost simultaneously the great cathedral bell booms in reply. Three times interrupted by regular intervals, the chime on the altar is struck and three times the heavy boom from the distant belfry supplies the echo. Then the priest turns and replaces the monstrance upon the altar, heads are raised, the Host is replaced in the tabernacle, the priest divested of his benediction robes puts on his hat and follows the attendants from the sanctuary, the people rise and stream out of the pews into the aisles, the choir bursts forth into jubilant song and the service is ended.

Yarrow/Achillea millifolium in Oriental and Western Medicine

Yarrow/Achillea millifolium in Oriental and Western Medicine

Pomegranates-Ancient Roots to Modern Medicine

Fragrant Quote for November 21st-2012-SONG OF THE THRESHER By Clarence Hawkes

In the autumn time when the barn is sweet
With the scent of hay and the fragrant wheat,
When corn and rye and the slender oats
Are lying still in their autumn coats,
When loft and mow and the broad deep bay
Are brimming o'er with the grain and hay,
Then the farmer takes from a dusty nail
In the barn or shed his well worn flail.
He oils the joint and he makes it tight,
Then swings it 'round with a boy's delight.
Ah! yes, 'twill do, 'tis the same old stick,
It hangs so neat and it swings so slick,
He must be off to the barn and try
His hand once more at the oats and rye;
And so he stands on the well filled floor
And swings his flail by the big barn door.
Whack, whack, sving, swing,
How the oat straws dance and the rafters ring!
Swing, swing, whack, whack,
Shelling the grain for the empty sack,
Though the back may ache and the muscles crack,
Swing, swing, whack, whack,
Shelling the grain for the empty sack.
He remembers how in the early spring
When the slender sprouts had begun to fling
The crusted dirt from their tender heads
He had watched them there in their lowly beds,
As faithfully as a father would,
As tenderly as a mother could,
He watched them grow in the fertile field,
From blight and plague he was their shield.
Then in July when the air was hot
He saw them grow with a sudden start;
They seemed to lengthen and swell each day—
"I can hear um grow," the farmer would say;
The merry wind with an elfin glee
Said, "This is a field that was made for me,"
And the ripening heads of the grain he tossed
Till they rose and fell like a marching host.
Whack, whack, swing, swing,
How the oat straws dance and the rafters ring!
Swing, swing, whack, whack,
Shelling the grain for the empty sack.
Though the back may ache and the muscles crack,
Swing, swing, whack, whack,
Shelling the grain for the empty sack.
A joy it was to recall the day
When the scythe and sickle came in play,
And the reaper, too, like a chariot bold
Laid the golden grain in the binder's fold,
And gleamed the shocks in the setting sun
Like an army's tents when the march is done;
Then came the teams with their mighty racks
And bore them away to be laid in stacks.

Aromatics Traditions of Islam in India

A View in Cairo

Aromatics Traditions of Islam in India

A child's sense of smell by Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

Gabriel Ferrier (1847-1914), jeune bergère algérienne
It is not in vain that the senses of children in their simplicity are familiar with delicate shows and scents. While we walk, breathing at the levels of lilac-trees and hawthorn, they have to breathe the fresh and strange odour of moss in the woods. Nor is there a breath of the breathing undergrowth that does not find its way to the spirit of a child, to create memories there. Either those wild and most homely scents that are close to the ground have in themselves more significance than have all the richer sweets that blossom breast-high, or else it is their direct communication with childhood that makes them magical. A child without a sense of the earth would miss as much as a child—if one could be—without a sense of the past.
Children poring over the ground make friends of a thousand little creatures that the elders elders have long ago forgotten. The child knows the spiritual-rustic scent of small daisies, though probably a great number of grown-up people have not been for many consecutive springs at the trouble of smelling a quite small wild daisy; one poet has had so short a memory as to call the daisies "smell-less"; and so with other kinds of growth. There are ways of the clinging of ivy, many footed, to be known only on the terms of childhood, and so with the little animals that find their way in the green twilight of blades of grass. Their fortunes are watched by children, who are so near them, and who would— if they might but know something of the work in hand—think themselves happy to use their superior strength and larger outlook in helping the industries of little ants and beetles. This may never be; the errands of the hurry of insects are not to be shared. And even in his consciousness of greater size and all other human conditions, the child is aware of his own one disproportionate disadvantage—he knows well that the ants and beetles are grown up. Only in the business of feeding he finds that he can come to an understanding with all kinds, or nearly all kinds, of small animals, and be useful. *fc He finds a city of ants most pleasantly responsive; there are no mistakes or misapprehensions.
A child's sense of smell by Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

Fragrant Quote for Novmber 20th, 2012-Lingering Autumn Wildlings by Wm. S. Rice

Woodland path, Cheyne Walk Open Space

Lingering Autumn Wildlings by Wm. S. Rice

One by one the summer wild flowers have passed, yet a host of hardy stragglers remains to gladden the sombre autumn copses and meadows with their brilliant hues far into October.
Fresh and exhilarating are the aromatic, woodsy odors of drying leaves of oak and hickory, as we plow through them in our autumn walks. How they quicken and thrill our jaded nerves as we inhale the spicy gush of their frankincense and myrrh! The odor of the moist earth in combination with that of pungent mountain mint, pennyroyal, spice-bush, pine and cedar acts as a tonic to the city bred man.

Earthly paradise: garden and courtyard in Islam By Jonas Benzion Lehrman

The Umayyad Mosque, also known as the Great Mosque of Damascus
Earthly paradise: garden and courtyard in Islam  By Jonas Benzion Lehrman

Bergamot Oil Expression

vecchia etichetta, illustrazione ottocentesca
Bergamot Oil Expression

Incense at Evensong, Mattins and Lauds

Thurible in Ethiopia
Incense at Evensong, Matins and Lauds

Chemical Composition and Biological Properties of Rhododendron anthopogon Essential Oil

Rhododenron anthopogon
Chemical Composition and Biological Properties of Rhododendron anthopogon Essential Oil

Palo jiote, Bursera simaruba as a plant used for incense, and as a living fence in Mexico and Guatemala

Bursera simaruba

Palo jiote, Bursera simaruba as a plant used for incense, and as a living fence in Mexico and Guatemala

Science and Plant Intelligence

Flower Intelligence
Science and Plant Intelligence By Kurt Schnaubelt

Fragrant Quote for November19th, 2012-Autumn Musings and Photography. BY WM. GEO. OPPFNUETM, PH. D., L. B.

Early morning mist in october, Zuid-Kennemerland national park, Netherlands
The autumn world seems suddenly sunk into a mild, waveless, almost impalpable ocean, a dreamy sea in which all the functions of Nature proceed in mellow silence, a sea whose golden water stirs not the gossamer nor disturbs the bees fumbling the latest flowers.
Indian summer runs like a golden thread through the autumn from almost mid-September far into November and sometimes with rare re-appearances well toward Christmas.
Sharp, hard, unsympathic days come in October and November like sober strands in the season's woof, but the golden thread appears and gives character to the high autumn. 
It is a subtle atmospheric condition composed of frost and sunshine, a narcotic balm and pungent stimulant that makes the autumn of this latitude the loveliest in the world.
"When one comes to make a further analysis of the autumn, one finds that the Indian summer touch of melancholy is the most spiritual element of the season's charm; then and only then does Nature seem to pause and show her sympathy with the sadness in the lives of men.
Spring is all hope, summer is riotous with joy, winter is boisterously self-sufficient, only autumn is thoroughly receptive, and into the aspects of Nature in that season man most readily reads the underlying sadness of his own soul.
Mingled with this sadness, however, is the unspeakable freshness of the autumn days; now, as ever, mornings and evenings are subtly expressive of the seasons.
It is well worth a night at a suburban hotel to catch the autumn morning of the suburbs at its best; sunrise comes sometimes at 6 o'clock, and an hour later the whole air is etherealized by the mist of the rising dews exhaled from surrounding meadows.
The woodland paths, thinly spread with new fallen leaves, are more than ever inviting to vagrant feet.
Whatever wild part remains in the blood asserts itself, and one is scornful of the laws against trespassing.
The whole suburban world seems rightfully his who has the feeling and the strength to cover it afoot, as '' Books belong of right to him that knows best how to use them." It is one of the pleasant facts of suburban life that anti-trespass notices are unusual; one may usually yield to the vagrant instinct of one's' feet and traverse unchallenged of man or sign-board whatever expanse of meadow and woodland the eye may take in.
If it does not suit the wanderer to pass the night in the suburbs let him rise early and walkjthe length of Central Park while yet the mysteries of the autumn night have not utterly fled before the sunlight; the occasional hum of wheels and the glint of spokes where some devotee of the silent steed takes his early morning spin, can scarcely destroy the illusion of a wild park miles away from the city's din.
The squirrels come down from their dens in the trees with quirks and coquettish noddings and backings and head-tossings and bowings, and show their tameness by accepting nuts from animal lovers, who watch their antics with ever increasing pleasure.
Every breath is an inspiring compound of autumnal spice and sea odors ; there is a lift in the atmosphere that makes a man feel as if his blood was among the stars, and in the harbor and along the North River opposite Claremont every moving thing seems to be aslant and every cat boat and tug seems to be instinct with life and color.
Autumn Musings and Photography.  BY WM. GEO. OPPFNUETM, PH. D., L. B.