The marriage of the Pine

The Pine Forest
The marriage of the Pine

Sumac/Smoke Tree(Cotinus corrygia) essential oil/Bulgaria

Smoke/Sumac Tree

Sumac/Smoke tree essential oil distilled from the leaves and twigs of the wild growing Cotinus corrygia tree in Bulgaria is a golden somewhat sticky viscous liquid displaying a rich, balsamic, slightly spicy, resinous bouquet with a sweet, fruity undertone of good tenacity

It natural perfumery has wide application because of its balanced olfactory profile finding use in high class florals, incense bouquets, forest notes, Oriental bouquets

Royal Hawaiian Sandalwood

Dear Friends-
Kind greetings!
I have been in a correspondence with Jeff Lee whose family is involved in the regeneration of Sandalwood(Santalum paniculatum) trees on their 2600 acres of land in Hawaii. The story is a very inspirational one.
Suzanne and I feel fortunate to be in contact with them and we are also happy to say that we will be offering the Royal Hawaiian Sandalwood oil that they offer within the next two weeks. It is a truly lovely material that should please the hearts of all those who love the scent of the heartwood of this Sacred Tree.
The past history of Sandalwood in Hawaii is a tragic one as the trees were almost made extinct by poor management and trade policies but now that situation is being rectified by the vision of the Lee family and those working with them. The tragic history is being turned into a happy one.

This blog is dedicated to sharing their work and also to give some links to various sites containing information about Sandalwood in Hawaii from ancient times to the present.

First here is Jeff's brief note to me regarding their work.

We are Hawaiian through our father. Grandpa was half Hawaiian (his mother) and half Chinese (his father) a Chinese businessman. Our family name is tied to the greater area via the Kingdom's Royal Patent assignment. We bought the 2,800 acres three years ago to begin our forest recovery program . A pilot for reintroduction of native forest in areas that were claimed for grazing during the ranching era in Hawaii. Although wet forests have many great examples there is no other success story to be told of reforestation in dryland forests of more than a few acres.

The Santalun Paniculatum that grows in our area in the highest growing in the world and is hosted by native trees and shrubs. The trees are much older than the planation trees of new world oils (30-60 years) and Album that is chased, often illegally, for value. Our effort is restore the entire forest without manipulation for economic gain. All trees removed are in decline and the value is directly applied to the forestry effort. As you will read in our mission statement we are educationally based and guided by Hawaiian cultural values which are similar in many indigenous cultures. It simply boils down to making decisions for the future generations ... both the land and people. The quick fix and short term gain mentality of today's world leaves the future unguided. There is a complicated and lasting smell in Paniculatum that holds history and values and the regeneration of the young trees in the Haloa forest number in the hundreds of thousands where like property all over the island lacks any sign of young trees to represent future generations.

The purchase of any product supports the forest and the values we believe will serve all.
Fulfillment comes in giving, in making a difference by example.

Void of written communication Hawaiians passed lineage through chants of song and dance. Legends were told to teach and pass lessons. Attaching the legend of Haloa, our namesake and couple of pics I took this Saturday of young sandalwood regrowth.  

More information about the Lee Family and other folks working with them on the Royal Hawaiian Sandalwood project

Royal Hawaiian Sandalwood

Photo Gallery of Sandalwood Replanting Project

Royal Hawaiian Sandalwood Video 

Distillation of Royal Hawaiian Sandalwood

The Legend of Haloa

 Other useful links-

Santalum paniculatum Images

The Hawaiian Species of the Genus of Santalum

Santalum paniculatu m/Royal Hawaiian Sandalwood

The Kingship and the Sandalwood Trade

History of the Sandalwood Tree in the Hawaiian Islands

Hawaiian Ethnobotany Database on Sandalwood

Santalum paniculatum Monograph
In the Shadow of the Sandalwood Tree-The Plight of the Wiliwili

The Sandalwoods of Hawaii: A Revision of the Hawaiian Species of the Genus ...By Joseph Francis Charles Rock

Hawaiian Sandalwood Project


Far back in the mythical ages,
A palace of silence once stood In the deep and solemn shadows
That o'er-brooded a summer wood. The birds never wandered thither,
The winds never stirred a leaf, And the song of the brook seemed muffled
In the spell of some hidden grief.

In those beautiful amethyst cloisters,
Where the sunbeams seldom stole, Each monk, with a vow of silence,
Had solemnly pledged his soul That never a sigh or murmur
On the air they breathed should fall; Only the clock's soft ticking,
And the prayer-bell's midnight call.

But out of the river the lilies
Crept up where the shadows fell, And white, and silent, and lovely,
They stole into chapel and cell; They went with the monks to the masses,
Where each one opened its cup And spilled on a soul its incense,
Ere night folded its petals up.

The sweetest of summer roses
In the palace shadows grew, And the rain, when it came to feed them,
Was as silent as the dew.
The violets that bloomed in the wildwood
Were purple-eyed and sweet,
And they shed their tender fragrance
At the touch of all silent feet.

So in the silence, foreshadowing
The silence that comes of death, The monks walked so near the lilies
That each one lived in their breath;
And that, with the dew of roses,
Clung to their souls so fast
That an angel's wings were fashioned
When death came for them at last.

Ah, each heart has its silent palace,
Where no one may enter in;
Its cloister of shadows and secrets
Where a living love has been;
Some dream of heaven, it may be,
Or some beautiful memory,
Which we shrouded in white samite,
And buried beneath the sea.

But happy are we if, at midnight,
As we go from cell to shrine, The sweet, white faces of lilies
Out of the darkness shine; Blest, if they spill their fragrance
On the bleeding wounds we bear, When we kneel by our shattered idols
Too weary to utter a prayer.

"Be still," says the dear Heavenly Father;
"Know I am God; be still.
I will lay on your heart my lilies
When you have bowed to my will;
My love shall be sweeter than roses,
When I fold you in sleep to my breast,
And in my own temple of silence
Give my beloved ones rest."

Ancient History of the Rose by Randle Wilbratham Falconer

Gathering Roses

Ancient History of the Rose


My garden aboundeth in pleasant nooks
And fragrance is over it all;
For sweet is the smell of my old, old books 
 In their places against the wall.
Here is a folio that's grim with age
And yellow and green with mould;
There's the breath of the sea on every page
And the hint of a stanch ship's hold.

And here is a treasure from France la belle
Exhaleth a faint perfume
Of wedded lily and asphodel
In a garden of a song abloom.

And this wee little book of Puritan mien
And rude, conspicuous print
Hath the Yankee flavour of winter-green,
Or, maybe of peppermint.

In Walton the brooks a-babbling tell
Where the cherry daisy grows,
And where in meadow of woodland dwell
The buttercup and the rose.

But best beloved of books, I ween,
Are those which one perceives
Are hallowed by ashes dropped between
The yellow, well-thumbed leaves.

For it's here a laugh and it's there a tear,
Till the treasured book is read;
And the ashes betwixt the pages here
Tell us of one long dead.

But the gracious presence reappears
As we read the book again,
And the fragrance of precious, distant years
Filleth the hearts of men.

Come, pluck with me in my garden nooks
The posies that bloom for all;
Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books
In their places against the wall!

Fragrance Among Old Books

Old Library


In one alcove of a certain library there seemeth 
ever to linger the scent of tea-roses. Two 
maiden ladies are wont to read there, mostly on 
Saturday afternoons, and once they were wearing 
each a sweet cluster of these flowers. Perchance 
some rarer balminess of air and sunshine had 
cleared their vision and compelled the unwonted 
purchase ; for they never wore them before nor 
after — nor, indeed, any flowers at all. They live 
in the town, and have no fragrant garden where 
sun-lit flowers thrive ; they are poor in this 
world's goods, so perforce they cannot buy. 
Therefore we see them clad ever soberly in close- 
fitting bonnets that, through some obscure tinge 
of colour, are just not black, and, if the weather 
is cold, in some quaint cape and woollen gloves. 
Their skirts are short for the cleaner walking ; 
their boots stout and, it may be, patched ; their 
hair smoothly braided. 

In such guise are these sisters, Miss Joan and 
Miss Dorothy, wont to come on Saturdays to 
their corner of the library, and to gather the 
substance of some lesson that they must give to 
their scholars next week ; for they are school- 
mistresses. In Chambers's Encyclopedia they 
find great store of wealth, and ply their pencils 
and little note-books, whispering and nodding to 
one another. Or the librarian, seeing that they 
are perchance busied about the early explorers, 
may show them, in an old volume of travels, some 
strange tale of marvels in newly - discovered 
lands. With what rapt wonder do they read, with 
what whispered exclamations of awe and delight. 
But at last — well, 'tis hard in these voyages 
to sever fact from fancy — how shall they be sure 
which is which ? How terrible if they made a 
mistake in class ! So they turn once more to the 
terra firma of Chambers s Encyclopcedia, though 
Miss Dorothy, the younger, whose face has still 
hints of comeliness, heaves a little sigh at 
abandoning those bold sailors, and the rush o' 
the sea, and that free, strong life. But she defers 
happily to her wiser sister, gladdened at heart for 
this glimpse into a bygone wonderland ; and 
presently, their work done, they will get up, still 
nodding and smiling, and go home armed at all 
points for the lesson to their highest class — 
which consists of two big girls. 

Teaching does not bring them riches ; but if 
they know that they are poor, the knowledge 
afflicts them not. They work on with a happy 
naturalness, now and again going, note-book still 
in hand (for they have ever an afterthought for 
their school), to some free lecture in the town. 
One thing only about their school-work troubles 
them — and it is that they can spare so few 
pounds a term as salary to the teacher who helps 
them. Still, the teacher is generally loth to leave 
them, and grows to love them not a little. 

For gifts of charity they have but scanty pence. 
Therefore, that they be not found at the last 
empty-handed, they give of their toil ; and on 
Sunday, after their week's teaching, will don a 
somewhat wider lace-collar, and plod down twice 
a day to the Church rooms, in fair weather or 
foul, to teach once more in the Sunday School. 
Ye sweet-minded women ! Small wonder if after 
this labour your faces look at times pale and 
pinched, and your eyes too alert and hungry. 

But if we would see them in a glow of hospit- 
able happiness, we must call upon them in their 
home, and have a cup of tea with them. The 
tea-pot is ready to their hand, and while Miss 
Dorothy cuts into a little cake (kept in readiness 
for visitors, and only eaten privately when quite 
stale). Miss Joan brews the tea. 

So they spend their life — a life that, if simple- 
minded, hath yet a certain dignity and recol- 
lectedness ; if austere towards themselves, is yet, 
within its means, generous to others ; if labori- 
ous, yet taketh delight in the society of friends. 
And the fragrance of such a life is, one may 
fancy, not ill symbolised by the flowers they wore 
on that memorable day. 

Aromatic Herb-Garden by E.S. Rodhe


THE garden by meanes of a path shall be devided 
into two equall parts ; the one shall contain the herbes 
and flowers used to make nosegaies and garlands of, as 
March violets, gilloflowers, small paunces, daisies, mari- 
golds, daffodils, Canterburie bells, anemones, mugwort, 
lillies and such like, and it may be called the nosegaie 
garden. The other part shall have all other sweet smelling 
herbes, as sothern wood, wormewood, rosemarie, jesamin, 
balme, mints, penneroyall, hyssop, lavendar, basill, sage, 
rue, tansy, thyme, cammomill, mugwoort, nept, sweet 
balme, all-good, anis, horehound and others such like, and 
they may be called the garden for herbes of a good smell.' 

The very word ' herb-garden ' suggests old-world peace 
and fragrance. It conjures up a vision, as remote and yet 
as familiar as memory, of a secluded pleasaunce full of 
sunlight and delicious scents and radiant with the colours 
and quiet charm of all the lovable old-fashioned plants 
one so rarely sees nowadays. From Saxon days until the 
end of the eighteenth century the herb-garden reigned 
supreme in England, and now that we are reviving so 
much that is old and pleasant, perhaps we shall be wise 
enough to restore the herb-garden with its beautiful 
colours and its fragrance to its former pride of place. 
And what plants have such beautiful and such 'comfortable'
names as the denizens of the herb-garden ? 
Comfrey, bergamot, melilot (how came so humble a 
herb by a name so lovely and so musical ?), marjoram, 
lovage, sweet Cicely, woodruff, mullein — those names 
were not * made.' They grew. The herb-garden is never 
more lovable than in the full blaze of sunlight on a sum- 
mer day, for then it is full of bees and fairies. We live in 
such a hurrying material age that even in our gardens we 
seem to have forgotten the elves and fairies who surely 
have the first claim on them. Their inheritance has been 
wrested from them, but create an old-world herb- 
garden, fill it with thyme, foxgloves, rosemary, lavender, 
marjoram, hyssop, bergamot, horehound and the like, 
and they return as to a familiar haunt. 

I know a herb-garden where the tiny paths are stone- 
flagged (the stones came from a Cistercian monastery), and 
between the stones grow varieties of wild thyme whose 
purplish-mauve tints are beautiful against the weather- 
beaten stones. There is bergamot with its quaint, glorious 
red flowers (I think it is the most beautiful red in the 
garden), masses of it near bushes of horehound ; beyond 
are the mellow tints of marjoram, catmint, sage and balm, 
blending happily with the lovely blues of hyssop, borage, 
succory and flax. There are spaces restful with the soft 
tones of lavender, not only the mauve but also the pearly 
white, which was Queen Henrietta Maria's favourite, 
lad's love, rue, chives, savory, tarragon, dill and lovage, 
and in between bright splashes of colour — marigolds, 
valerian, tansy and the like. Here are the stately elecam- 
pane with its beautiful golden flowers (the herb which 
Helen of Troy is said to have held in her hand when 
carried off by Paris), and angelica (whose virtues are said 
to have been revealed by an angel). As tall as angelica 
are the bushes of fennel with their curiously polished 
stems and feathery tufts of leaves and reminding one of 
the monastic herb-gardens where this herb was grown in 
abundance to eat with fish on fast days. In one corner is 
an elder tree, and one recalls that if one stands near 
Mother Elder at midnight on midsummer's eve one sees 
the King of the Elves and all his train go by. The hedge 
enclosing this peaceful sanctuary is of rosemary, and at 
the end of the broad centre-path is a sundial which looks 
as though it had not only lived with the same family for 
generations but as though it had also been loved by them 
and shared their joys and sorrows. The kindly herbs have 
long since made it welcome and with them it seems to 
have some secret understanding. 

Flower Fairies-E.S. Rodhe

The fairy that disappeared
I think the fairies we all love most are the flower 
fairies, the fairies who play about in the scent of the 
thyme and in and out of the foxgloves, swing themselves 
in the bluebells and ring the exquisite little bells of the 
wood-sorrel to summon Oberon and Titania's court to 
their midnight revels. The pixies use the tulip flowers as 
cradles, and there is a charming West Country tale of an 
old woman who grew tulips in her cottage garden and 
never allowed them to be gathered because of the 
pixies. They could be heard at night singing their babies 
to sleep, and these tulips lasted longer than any others and 
their scent was sweeter than the scent of roses. When the 
old woman died, the tulips were dug up and the garden 
left desolate, but the pixies tended her grave and in 
spring time planted it with wild flowers. And what of the 
fairies' sea gardens ? The little rocks which they plant so 
lovingly with tiny seaweeds, anemones and coralline, and 
the green ' Mermaid's lace ' we see in pools ? What of 
St. Brandan's Fairy Isle, which on summer evenings on 
our western shores we behold bathed in the golden 
splendour of the sunset ? And we all know the little fairy 
gardens, the tiny patches of greensward starred with 
minute sea-pinks in the sheltered pockets of our rocky 
coasts. It is easy to believe the old tales of the fairy 
music heard at night, the hundreds of little lights moving 
about and the sweet perfume wafted far out to sea from 
the small people's gardens. In our own gardens do we 
not, every summer morning, see the fairies' handiwork — 
the long hanging bridges and palaces we call cobwebs, 
and which are amongst the loveliest and least earthly of 
earthly things ? And who but the fairies deck the flowers 
and leaves with dewdrops ? 

' The light fairies danced upon the flowers 
Hanging on every leaf an orient pearl, 
Which struck together with the silken wind 
Of their loose mantles made a silver chime.' 

But alas ! the little people themselves we do not see. 

'Methinks we walk in Dreams in Fairyland.' 

There are many roads leading to Fairyland, and at first 
the way seems as simple as the little people themselves, but 
how soon mists arise and we find ourselves in a pathless 
waste, for as Spenser told us long ago : 
 None that breatheth living aire does know 
Where is that happy land of Faerie.' 

Scent of Apples-E.S. Rodhe

Pommiers et genĂȘts en fleurs

The ' softest ' of the early summer scents is surely that 
of apple blossom. The individual blossoms have little 
perfume, but in the mass it is exceeding sweet, although 
delicate. But I think its most attractive quality, beyond 
even its sweetness, is its softness. To walk in an orchard 
of apple trees in full bloom is to be enfolded in an invisible 
soft cloud of most delicate yet all-pervading perfume. 
A great deal has been written about night-scented flowers, 
but lovely as they are, the early morning scents are, I 
think, the lovelier. The scent of apple blossom is sweetest 
and most pervading in the early morning. Indeed, it is so 
strong that it overpowers all other scents, for the whole 
air is filled with it. And how delightful it is to watch 
the pollen-bearing bees loaded with the pale yellow pollen 
of the blossoms. This year the apple blossom, according 
to the country-folk, is more wonderful than within living 
memory. Indeed, it is difficult to find on the young trees 
one wood-making shoot, and the flowers are so closely set 
that seven to ten flowers in a cluster are quite common. 
The apple orchards, especially of the West Country, have 
been surely one of the most glorious floral spectacles in 
Europe. Their beauty is unsung, and mercifully unadvertised, 
but to those who love them there are few 
sights of more endearing beauty than an English orchard 
in full bloom. How much has been written of the plum 
and cherry blossom of Japan, but what can compare with 
the opalescent loveliness and the ethereal scent of apple 
blossom ? When the trees are almost hidden by the wealth 
of white foam and given by the rosy-fingered dawn her 
first caress, a magic casement into fairyland is opened. 
An apple orchard in bloom is indeed one of the loveliest 
sights on earth. The beauty of cherry and plum blossoms 
appeals to the imagination, but the child-like loveliness of 
apple blossom appeals to the heart. Moreover, in spite 
of the ethereal beauty and fragrance of the flowers, there 
is a quality of homeliness about apple trees which endears 
them to us all. 

The apple tree may indeed be described as the tree 
symbol of an English home, for there is no other tree 
which embodies in its quiet happy beauty and its simplicity 
all that the word home means to our race. How 
largely this tree figures in the domestic history of our 
race, and how interesting it would be to trace the story 
of it in these islands from the days of our British ancestors 
through Saxon, medieval, Tudor, Stuart and Georgian 
days. What pictures flit before one of our indigenous 
apple trees in the beauty of their bloom before the days 
of the Romans, when the sacred island of Avalon was so 
called because of the apples which grew there in such 
abundance ; of the orchards of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors 
and the picturesque scenes when they made cider (which 
they called sieder) of the well-cared for orchards belonging 
to the monasteries ; of the fame of the cider orchards 
of Herefordshire even in Elizabeth's reign. Gerard 
enthusiastically advocated the planting of yet more or- 
chards. ' Gentlemen, that have lands and living put 
forward in the name of God ; graffe, set, plant, and nourish 
up trees in every corner of your grounds ; the labour is 
small, the cost is nothing, the commoditie is great, your- 
selves shall have plentie, the poor shall have somewhat 
in time of want to relieve their necessitie and God shall 
rewarde your good mindes and diligence.' Apples and 
apple trees figure largely in our folk-lore and the custom 
of wassailing trees was kept up to within living memory. 

' Here's to thee, old apple-tree ; 
Hence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow, 
And whence thou mayst apples bear enow ! 
Hats full ! caps full ! 
Bushel, bushel sacks full ! 
And my pockets full, too ! Huzza ! ' 

Apples, too, were widely used, not only in the medicines 
prescribed by the physicians, but also in homely remedies, 
and the smell of apples was accounted very wholesome. 
John Key, who was physician to Queen Mary, and later 
to Elizabeth, had great faith in even the smell of apples. 
In his book, which was published in 1552, he counselled 
his patients, when feeling weak after a dangerous illness, 
to ' smell to an old swete apple for there is nothing more 
comfortable to the spirits than good and swete odours.' 
Apple juice and pulp were widely used in cosmetics and 
' comfort apples,' as they were called (apples stuck with 
cloves), were the poor man's substitute for the orange stuck 
with cloves of the rick folk. One recalls a passage by Ralph 
Austen, that great lover of orchards and of the scent of 
their blossoms : ' Sweet perfumes work immediately 
upon the spirits for their refreshing ; sweet and health- 
full ayres are special preservatives to health, and therefore 
much to be prised. The most pleasant and wholesome 
odours are from the blossomes of Fruit-Trees, which 
having in them a condensing and cooling property are 
therefore not simply Healthfull, but are accompted 
Cordiall, chearing and refreshing the Heart and vital 
spirits.' 1 I wonder why we do not revert to the medieval 
custom of growing fruit trees in small pleasure gardens. 
There are thousands of small gardens where there is only 
space for a few shrubs and very frequently one sees shrubs 
which are in beauty for only one season. But fruit trees 
have two seasons of great beauty. A Captain John 
Taverner, writing as early as 1600, advised that all the 
highways in England should be planted with fruit trees, 
and he added the sensible suggestion that anyone should 
be allowed to pick and eat the fruit, but that if he carried 
it away he should be punished. 

Old fashioned Primulas-E. S. Rodhe

Old fashioned Primula
As early as January the first primroses shine forth in 
their ethereal loveliness, but they never attain their full 
beauty till April sun and showers have developed their 
soft beautiful leaves. Woodland primroses are such shy 
flowers that they never look quite at their ease in gardens 
except in a wild part or on a bank. What is the colour of 
the primrose ? There is an exceeding softness and delicacy 
about the flowers, enhanced by the down of their 
stalks and the faint green of the under surfaces of their 
leaves. About them is the mystery and purity of the far 
expanses of the gardens of space. In the pure light of 
their petals they seem to reflect the luminous majesty of 
the flowers in the starry meadows of the Pleiades. How 
curiously arresting is the pale yet vivid green eye of the 
primrose with its circle of orange. Violets' eyes are full 
of dreams, aconites' of demure laughter, wood anemones' 
of fairy secrets, but in the delicate sensitive eye of the 
primrose there is something of almost human appeal. It 
is sweet and grave and child-like, thoughtful without a 
trace of sadness. Beyond all this is the elusive other- 
world expression which always baffles us. We may look 
at them, but their eyes never meet ours. The first 
ambassadors of spring in the woodlands bring with them 
a nameless quality from worlds infinitely remote and 
beyond our ken. Their secret is held in their faint 
ethereal perfume, so delicate that one never tires of it, 
so fresh that no other scent can be compared to its un- 
earthly purity. They are redolent of the paths of the 
angels. Primroses shine with a sudden gladness lacking 
in flowers far more brilliant in hue. But their light does 
not seem to be of this earth, and memories of them haunt 
us even when the merry bluebells carpet the greenwood. 

St Brigid of Kildare by E. S. Rodhe

St Brigid of Kildare
The scents and sounds of spring remind one of St. 
Bride, the patron saint of the first flowers, young children 
and lambs. For February is the month of St. Bride of 
the kindly flame, the gentle mother of all young and 
tender things Her ways are ways of gentleness. Through 
the mists of centuries we see her gracious figure, her 
lamb in her arms, a lamp in her hand. When the bitter 
winds are still blowing, the kindly flame of her flower, the 
dandelion, shines out and tells us that spring is near. She 
watches over mothers and their new-born babes, and on 
the hill-sides she brings the shepherds to the new-born 
lambs. She is loved in all Celtic lands, from the western 
highlands and islands of Scotland to Kildare, where, for 
centuries, her lamp was kept always burning. 

St. Bride's father was Dubtach, twelfth in descent from 
Fedlimidh Rechtmar, King of Ireland in the second 
century. Her mother was a beautiful slave. When St. 
Bride took the veil seven virgins followed her example, 
and each of them chose a Beatitude representing the grace 
she specially desired. St. Bride chose ' Blessed are the 
merciful for they shall obtain mercy.' The various lives 
of her recount many tales of her gentle pity for all young 
creatures, and for weak and suffering folk. She was noted 
for her love of animals and birds, and she particularly 
delighted in calling the wild duck and geese to her and 
caressing them. 

When her fame was at its height Iollan, King of Lein- 
ster, offered her land to build a monastery. She chose the 
clay ridge above the plain of Magh Breagh, and there, by 
an ancient and venerated oak, she established her cill, 
afterwards famous as Kildare, the ' cell of the oak.' In- 
numerable folk of both sexes came to her cill and, 
according to Cogitosus, Kildare became l the head of 
nearly all the Irish churches and the pinnacle towering 
above all monasteries of the Scots, whose jurisdiction 
spread throughout the whole Hibernian land, reaching 
from sea to sea.' St. Bride was joined by her kinsman, 
Conlaeth, a hermit who was famed for the bells he made. 
He became bishop ' to govern the church with her in 
episcopal dignity.' Even when he was a bishop Conlaeth 
continued to work at his anvil, and made many croziers 
and bells. Whether St. Bride loved bells we do not know, 
but it is on record that St. Gildas sent her a bell from 
Brittany. Numerous churches are named after this 
beloved saint, amongst others, St. Bride in Fleet Street. 

Beyond St. Bride we see another form, still more remote 
and almost lost in the darkness of antiquity — Bride the 
Beautiful, the Gaelic goddess of poetry. A goddess of 
flame also, for she was born at sunrise, and has never 
ceased to light the hearts of poets with divine fire. She, 
too, lights the kindly flame of the dandelion, the first 
fire of spring. In the clouds which shroud the hill-sides 
the shepherds hear the crying of the young lambs she is 
bringing earthward, and they rejoice at her coming. She 
watches over young children in their cradles, and when 
they smile it is because they have seen gentle St. Bride's 

Fragrance of Crocus-E.S. Rodhe

Crocus and snowdrops
I am writing for the first time this year out of 
doors, on one of those glorious sunny days which always 
come in February and for which one is so much more 
grateful than for a whole week of summer sun. And 
I have just been counting the number of flowers on 
the largest clump of golden crocuses (C. vermis) by the 
apple trees in our garden. There are at least seventy-eight 
flowers fully out, though how they have managed to crowd 
themselves into a space measuring only about 9 inches by 
12 is little short of a miracle. The flowers are as large as 
any grown singly and very long-stalked (some of them 
certainly 5 or 6 inches long), and, pushing aside the fully 
expanded flowers, one could see there were masses more 
coming on. When I came there were eight or nine bees 
working at the flowers, and watching the bees for some 
time it was delightful to see how often the same bees, 
after a hurried visit to smaller clumps near by, returned to 
feast on the riches spread before them on the largest 
clumps. The words of an Elizabethan madrigal come into 
my mind : 

1 like the bee with Toil and Pain 
Fly humbly o'er the flow'ry Plain 
And with the Busy Throng 
The little sweets my Labours gain 
I work into a song.' 

The scent of the crocuses would be almost imperceptible 
from the single flowers, but from the masses it is warm and 
exquisite, and in the sunlight the clumps look like masses 
of translucent gold caught not out of the sunlight but 
out of the sun itself. It is curious how colour seems to 
alter the character of a crocus flower. Yellow and golden 
crocuses look almost riotously happy, but all the mauve 
varieties have a placid dreamy appearance. Of the very 
early-flowering varieties C. imperati is always described 
as scented, but it does not seem to be more scented than 
some of the other varieties, especially the commonest 
of the yellow and gold-coloured kinds. From the point of 
view of decorative effect nothing touches the Dutch 
yellow crocus (C. vernus). No one knows its origin. It is 
probably of garden origin, for it is sterile, and it has never 
been found growing wild. It increases by throwing off 
little corms. If planted in grass the grass should never be 
mown till the crocus leaves have quite withered, otherwise 
the corms will suffer badly. Though the bees love crocuses 
grown in clumps the birds do not seem to attack them as 
much as crocuses planted singly, or if they do, their 
depredations are not so apparent. What the birds love 
in them is the tiny drop of nectar to be found in each 
flower. What with one thing and another crocuses have 
many enemies. Field mice, the mischievous grey squirrel 
and rats all enjoy eating the corms, and if planted near 
the surface nothing will stop pheasants pecking them out. 

Melody of Flowers by E. S. Rodhe

Fairy Face
The melodies of the flowers — the music of fairyland — 
cannot be heard by mortal ears. Yet throughout the year 
this lovely music is being played. When the snowdrops 
appear, do we not feel we are listening to fairy bells, the 
' horns of elf land faintly blowing,' telling us of the coming 
spring, when the golden trumpets of the daffodils will 
take up the refrain ? I think to most of us the scents of 
the different seasons are as characteristic as their colours. 
The purest scents are those of spring, for no summer 
scents have the fresh ethereal purity of primroses, cow- 
slips or white violets. These scents are suggestive of 
worlds fairer even than our own. Unlike many of the 
richer perfumes we can never have enough of these 
scents, and their elusive charm haunts us throughout the 
year. The scent of apple blossom has, I think, this 
quality more than any other of the early flowers. Were 
I condemned to live in the tropics, I should be heart-sick 
every May for the scent of apple blossom. The same 
quality of purity and wholesomeness is characteristic of 
the less ethereal scents of bean-flowers, of clover and 
new mown hay, and beyond all of heather under a hot sun. 
The scents of the summer flowers are rich and joyous 
and sweetest of all are the scents of the * old ' roses. The 
scent of the cabbage rose is more than a scent. It is the 
beauty of life itself, of its sorrows as well as its joys. And 
what of the melodies of wondrous beauty wafted from 
the snowy trumpets of the Madonna lilies — songs of 
praise unknown to mortal ears ? The summer flowers 
laugh and sing and the earth is filled with gladness. No 
two scents are alike, and yet how perfectly they blend 
in the garden. ' There is neither speech nor language but 
their voices are heard among them.'  
Missale quinque tomis constans
"I wish unto you by dayly Prayer and fruition of 
the Heavenly Paradise cravyng of the Omnipotent and 
provident God, the guider of that gorgeous Garden that 
hee would vouchsafe to graunte unto you the sweete 
savour of his chiefe fragrante floures, that is his comfort 
to cleave faste unto you, his mercy to keepe you and 
his grace to guyde you nowe and evermore." 

(From the Epistle dedicatory addressed to William 
Cecil, Lord Burghley; Lord High Treasurer 
of England. 7 be Gardeners Labyrinth 1577.) 

Forget-Me-Not by Elanour Sinclair Rodhe

Forget-Me-Not by Elanour Sinclair Rodhe
How satisfying the old flower names are, and how true. 
Forget-me-not preserves the memory of a beautiful old 
legend. There came a day when the Heavenly Father 
bestowed on all the flowers their names. But a pale blue 
flower, a little dreamer, forgot her name. She looked in 
the clear water at her feet and up to the blue Heaven 
above her, but try as she would she could not remember. 

When night came on, and the stars shone out, it filled 
her with wonder to think that her Heavenly Father knew 
the number of those dazzling myriads in the infinite 
gardens of Heaven, and called them all by their names. 
 'I cannot remember my name. Do you know it ? ' she 
whispered to one of the fairest stars. ' Not yet,' said the 
star, gazing down on the exquisite beauty of his new 
little sister on earth.  But our Heavenly Father knows your 
name. Ask Him and He will tell you.' In the morning 
when she woke she saw a group of daisies near her throw- 
ing back their lovely crimson-tipped petals to be kissed 
by their big brother the Sun. 'Do you remember your 
name ? for I have forgotten mine,' she said to one of them, 
a gay little fellow with more crimson tips on his petals 
than any of the others. 'I did not hear your name,' he 
replied, but ask our Heavenly Father and He will tell 
you. We are daisies. What other name could be ours, for 
see how like we are to our big brother.' And he turned 
his laughing little face up to the Sun. 

In the cool of the evening God walked in the garden. 
In time He came to the little blue flower and with adoring 
love and wonder she beheld His face. Presently she said 
very humbly, 'Alas ! that I should have forgotten the 
name Thou gavest me.' The Heavenly Father smiled on 
her, but He did not tell her the name she had forgotten. 
He answered her, 'Forget-ME-not.' 

The little blue flower was silent with happiness. So 
beautiful a name would have crowned the furthest star 
in the Heavens, yet her Heavenly Father had chosen to 
bestow it on a little flower of this earth. The forget-me- 
not is still a dreamer. Through the centuries she dreams 
and forgets continually, but she does not forget her name. 
So earnestly does she obey her Heavenly Father's com- 
mand that not only is the blue of Heaven in her petals, 
but something of its peace and joy as well. And to all 
who look on her she gives a peculiar joy.  

Nutmeg(Myristica fragrans) Absolute/French Extracted


Nutmeg absolute is an orange somewhat viscous liquid displaying a deep, rich,  sweet, warm, powdery-spicy bouquet with a suave, velvety balsamic-woody undertone of fine tenacity.

In natural perfumery it is used in spice accords, incense bouquets, culinary perfumes, Oriental bases, high class florals, amber bases, colognes

Arnica montana Absolute/France

Arnica montana

Arnica montana Absolute is a dark green to amber colored viscous liquid display ing a rich, sweet, warm, fruity-herbaceous bouquet with a hone yed, balsamic, woody undertone of very good tenacity

In natural perfumery it is used in herbal bouquets, high class florals, chypre, fougere, colognes, amber bases, leather perfumes


Garden In May

The roses are in bloom. She knows it, that aged woman dwelling in the stone-colored house on the hill; she knows that the roses, whose beauty and fragrance she has so loved her lifelong, are in blossom, though she sees them not. The sportive, but kindly June breezes have been at play in the garden; they have kissed the just opening buds and brought their exhaled breath to the blind woman at the open window, and showered it a sweet offering to her grateful sense of their perfume. The merry wild birds have been roaming and romping amid the woodlands and meadows; they have rested their tiny wings by hill-base and road-side; they have woven the fragrance of the hedge-roses with their gay melodies, and now, perched on the great cherry-tree beside the southern porch, — the little rogues I suspect have a motive prepense in their partiality to that tree,—pour it in rippling gushes into her song-loving ear. As the warm sun, glancing through the apple boughs salutes her parted lips, she knows that he has been drinking the nightbath in which the red roses have slept. She
 knows it, for the sweet-brier beneath the window at which she sits, trembling with its own sweetness, tells her the roses are in bloom. And now she cannot be mistaken for she hears the little, pattering feet and hurried breathing of the household birdling Jennie; and little plump hands drop into her lap, and sweet lips lisp " her' white 'oses for ga'-ma."
The happy grandmother, — for though blind, her heart is full of love, and no loving heart is ever wholly unblessed, — gathers her favorite flowers in her thin hand, raises the darling in her arms, presses her fondly to her aged Iwom, kisses her again and again, calls her her precious little fairy of the garden, her rose-bud, and many other caressing names which doating parents are wont to bestow on cherished little ones.
White roses! Oh what memories they awaken; what experiences they revive! She has loved the roses always. She gathered them from garden and wayside when a child; and when the red roses were in bloom on her cheeks, the soft hands of young, loving friends wreathed white ones in the waves of her dark hair on her bridal morning. They were very sweet to her then, and she remembers the beauty and fragrance which they lent on that happy day. And they have blossomed many, many seasons, — her heart keeps the record, — since she saw the fresh, half opened buds plucked by the hands of sympathizing friends, and strewn by them over the bosom, brow and bier of her first household idol, her beautiful Alice! Fair as the roses, she was just expanding into early beauty when she was plucked from love's parterre and transplanted to blossom where, unlike those emblems of transient loveliness, she should open into immortal, unfading bloom.
And she yet loves them; that aged, sightless woman yet loves these fair earth-blooms, these sweet children of Nature; oh, so dearly loves them for their fragrance, and for the pure beauty which she well knows they possess. And she loves them even more for the treasured associations with which they are blended; for the faith which they strengthen, and for the hopes which they revive. They are to her weleome visitants from Time's receding shore; and they bring to  her perfumed messages from the dear dwellers of' the happy land. She passes her withered, trembling fingers over their soft, fresh petals, raises them to her lips and nostrils, and the warm dew of tender remembrances falls into their fragrant chalice.
O, there's no heart however sad or weary,
But hath some joy its present light and stay;
There is no path however dark or dreary,
But hath some roses in its thorny way.
That infant at its mother's breast, — the unfledged nestling of the same stone-colored house, — reaches its little dimpled hand, and the pink tinted fingers grasp the bright, fragrant flower with which its mother is regaling her sense of beauty and of odor. A human blossom and a summer flower! So pure, so beautiful are they each, they suggest the idea that the rose is tho twin thought to the baby's soul.

And they know too that roses are blooming, that band of merry-hearted school children; and they know too how and where to obtain them. So climbing the green, outer bank, their small, clean hands pressed on the white rails, and their sunny faces peeping between, — themselves forming a lovely rose wreath, — with soft, half-pleading, half assured tones, they say, "Please Mrs.
to give us some roses to put in the vase on our teacher's desk." The coveted blossoms are placed in the many eager hands, and one can scaree say which are most beautiful, those young, glad faces, or those fragrant children of Nature. The wishful but slightly doubting expression when soliciting, and the beaming smile when receiving them, occasion the involuntary comparison with those fair, sensitive flowers, which, when just dimmed by a floating cloud, glow even more radiantly in the bursting sunbeams for the shadow having rested for a moment upon them. O, how small a thing can make or mar the happiness of a child.

And yet, in view of all the pure pleasure which they impart, the cultivation of flowers is treated by some, — they are to be sure the extreme utilitarians of the age— as if all attentions thus bestowed were not a folly simply, but an inexcusable perversion of common sense. "Root out your flowering shrubs, your useless plants," say they. "Cultivate corn, potatoes and squashes in their place; something useful, something which will meet the demands of your physical nature." They
will tell you " 'tis a foolish expenditure of time and means, an investment which makes no return. It will not satisfy the wants of either yourself or of your children."

Such persons doubtless mean well, but they are not aware that their argument refutes their own theory. They are not conscious of impeaching the wisdom of Him who ever "doeth all things well;" who manifests the beneficence of His character in the flowers, not less than in the clustered fruit and the ripened grain. They forget that the wise Creator has endowed us with other than mere animal instincts which demand indulgence. Our physical nature requires sustenance, and He has given us the faculties, and provided the means wherewith we may satisfy our every need. But He has created us with senses also, those ever open avenues through which the finer, purer instincts of the soul perceive and receive their insatiably craved-for aliment. And that aliment he has lavishly supplied. He has made us exquisitely sensitive to touch, and surrounded us with friends, the clasp of whose dear hands, and the pressure of whose loved lips thrill us with profoundest delight. Through His loving kindness we are delicately susceptible to fragrance, and Nature"s breath is laden with perfume. He has attuned our ears to the love of sweet sounds, and the entire creation swells and vibrates with music. He has possessed us with the faculty of taste, and every thing needful for our sustenance is made pleasant to our lips. He has graciously imparted to us keen perceptions of the beautiful; and the eye revels in, and is flooded with countless forms and hues of loveliness. For us the earth is arrayed in robes of gorgeous magnificence. He delights our sight with the painted banners with which he hangs the sky by day; and we gaze with rapture, adoring the hand which stretches over us the sparkling, jewel studded tent by night. And thus the soul partakes through the senses a perpetual, ever satisfying, but never satiating feast. - But of all the profuse adornments of earth, nothing is so incomparably lovely, and nothing seems so expressly designed for our pleasure as the flowers. They are to us the smiles of God, the symboled poetry of heaven; and as such, they cannot fail to fill with pure and elevated affection the heart that loves them. They are the breathing psalms with which we may pour our praise to the great Author of all created loveliness. They are the painted anthems with which we may worship the beneficent Giver of life, and of all that makes life beautiful and blessed. They are the perfumed chants with which we may offer the incense of onr grateful souls to the All-wise. All-loving bestower of every good and every perfect gift. God be praised for flowers.
Oldtown, June.

White Cedar(Thuja occidentialis) absolute

Thuja occidentalis along the Jordon Pond Trail, Maine
White Cedar Absolute is a viscous liquid distilled from the foliage of the evergreen conifer Thuja occidentalis growing in Eastern Canada. It is a dark olive green liquid displaying a deep, green, slightly punguent, yet sweet resinous bouquet with a fine coumarinic, delicate fruity-spicy undertone of fine tenacity.

It is used in incense perfumes, amber notes, forest bouquets, holiday bouquets, sacred perfumes and colognes.
It has excellent fixative qualities

Black Spruce(Picea mariana) Absolute

Black Spruce Foliage and Cones
Black Spruce Absolute is an olive green very viscous liquid requiring gentle heating to become a readily flowable liquid. It is extracted from the foliage of Picea mariana. The absolute displays a dried fruit-leathery topnote which glides into an immensely rich,   spicy, resinous heartnote with a sweet, fruity, balsamic undertone of fine tenacity.

In natural perfumery it is used in forest notes, amber bases, spice accords, incense perfumes, sacred essences, high class florals, new mown hay, cologne. It is an excellent fixative

White Spruce(Picea glauca) Absolute

White Spruce Foliage and Cones
White Spruce(Picea glauca) Absolute is extracted from the fresh needles of the tree. It is an olive green very viscous liquid(not pourable under normal conditions hence requires gentle heating to become pourable. The absolute displays a deep, green, sweet, resinous-balsamic bouquet with a delicate fruity-coumarinic undertone of outstanding tenacity.

In natural perfumery it is used in forest notes, sacred perfumes, high class florals, new mown hay, incense bouquets, amber bases, herbal bouquets

May Flower by Frances Green

All true development must follow the order of a true and perfect nature ; and the closer the parallel, the more exalted will be the attainment. A love of the Beautiful is one of the deepest and strongest principles of the human character; and in nothing is it so universally unfolded, as in the love of flowers. In every clime, from the regions of polar ice to the gorgeous bloom and luxuriant fruitage of the tropics plants and flowers sustain the same relations to this predominating taste, as children and other pets do to the faculty of the Love of Offspring—they are the familiar favorites which associate the feeling with all that is dearest in home, and home-scenes. Is it not proper, then—is it not necessary—since they are the inmates of our houses, our gardens, and our favorite walks, that we should know something of their composition, structure, vital characteristics, and modes of life and growth ? Surely no one could have a doubt of this. Let us then open our eyes, and open our souls—not to the dry technicalities of ponderous volumes, but to the light, the truth, the wisdom—the inspiring breath and invigorating sunshine of Nature.
And now, while the whole vegetable world has received a now impulse of life and growth, let us so enter into that life, that the development of the mind may keep pace with the unfolding of external forms ; for at this genial season the vital currents flow with the utmost vigor
and rapidity. Let us go out into the fields,, that our hearts may be quickened with sympathy, and warmed with the beauty we behold; and thus shall we be prepared to look more clearly into the mysteries of vegetable substance, growth and life.
The May flowers! What a world of loving thought opens with the utterance of those three simple words ! Come out, then, and enter the blissful Eden, where no frowning angel waves the flaming sword of a too abstruse scholarship ; but smiling little Loves peep out from unfolding bud and blossom, and the angels of the Flowers, clothed with bloom and fragrance, shall steal into our bosoms, that the joy and sweetness which are elements of their beautiful life, may be inhaled by ours. If we would listen with our souls, we should know that the Floral Spirits make the silence of morning musical with the breath of their sweet hymns. Let us, then, "with the docility of little children, sit down at the feet of Nature; and perchance she may tell us what she is unfolding in this freshest and fairest Month of the crowned Twelve.
The grass is green in the meadows; and the burnished chalice of the Butter-cup, and the shield-like flower of the Dandelion, sprinkle the smiling verdure with drops of gold. The Lily of the Valley unfolds its spotless petals to the sun; the Tulip flaunts her gaudy robes along our garden walks, while the grateful Hyacinth rings a sweet chime of fragrance from her depending bells—for are not bloom, and music, and perfume, one in the sweet harmonies of Nature—only opening different senses to the same feeling—a perception of the sweet and beautiful?
The Horse-chestnut unfolds its fingered leaves with almost preternatural rapidity; and* the pyramidal clusters will soon be in their full flower. The large buds of the Alanthus tree are already expanding into their winged leaves; and the Vine which has appeared like a network of dark, dead ropes, begins to exhibit signs of life, in the reddish purple of its crowning buds ; while many other shrubs and vines are already clothed with greenness. The Elm has shed its unpretending flower, and is now putting forth its foliage, while the long and pensile stems of the Willow are wafted in the air, as if winged into graceful motion by the light and feathery leaves.
Showers of blossoms, white and rosy, are shaken from the Cherry, Peach, and Plum trees; and the Orchards are already beginning to put on their beautiful garments of rejoicing for the present—of promise for the future. The lofty Ash wears the rich clusters of its winged flowers ; while through the swamps, or along the borders of the moist old wood, the Maple hangs out the full bunches of its crimson keys. And this brings us into view of the forest.
How suddenly has its lately rigid aspect changed into a fleeciness of outline, as we now sec it in the distance; and the warmer hue which has been given by the redness of the young shoots, and the swelling buds, and the unfolding flower, is inexpressibly soft and beautiful. As we come nearer we can see how much the crimson tufts of blossoms, and clusters of young leaves that cover the Oak, have had to do in producing the effect; and we find that the gnarled form pf this stately tree, is invested with a robe of unwonted beauty.
But what perfume is that, so delicate it steals upon the senses like a breath from Fairy Land ? Half hidden among the brown old leaves, and the gray lichens, we find a modest flower, the Trailing Arbutus— its tube-like blossoms white, or tinged with various shades of red, clustering on their short stalks, and breathing their sweet incense on the altar of Spring. Here and there, gleaming amid the unhidden ways, the Pyrus shrub is seen, in the profusion of its flower, white as a mound of newly-fallen snow ; and again the early Azalea relieves the eye with its blossoms, bright as the lips of a sea-shell, looking in the distance like a heap of roses. •
Here, on this bank, sloping and open to the sweet south-west, we shall find the mossy ground blue with Violets. Among the crevices of the rocks above, the Columbine gathers honey in the depths of her purple horn, while the early Saxifrage, and the Mouse-ear Everlasting, cover all the gravelly patches of the soil, with their white and woolly flowers. All the woods and fields are full of life in its fairest forms. Yes; we must learn to regard these—the Flowers as living beings—
members of the same great family—our younger sisters in the wide and beautiful life-series, which we arc permitted to crown with the intelligence of the sentient soul. We have seen how lovely are their forms, how delicate their hues, how exquisite is their fragrance, and how refreshing is their greenness; and we shall yet come to know how the elements of all these enter into our moral being, with still refining influences, to be reabsorbed by higher powers, to which our life is, as yet, only rudimental, and but as the unfolding of flowers. Another time we shall seek to know something of the operations of that mysterious Life, which we are now contemplating.