Jack o' Lantern Pie by Blanchie Elizabeth Wade

 Jack o' Lantern Pie by Blanchie Elizabeth Wade

Once upon a time there was a pumpkin— Oh, no! Once upon a time there was a great, green sprawling vine that grew in the garden——— But, no, again! I‘ll have to go back farther than the vine, after all; for there never could have been a pumpkin nor a great green sprawling vine growing in the garden if first of all,’ once upon a time, there had not been a seed!
Once upon a time, then, there was a seed. It was a pumpkin-seed, and you know what that looks like. It is flat, and pointed at each end, shaped much like a Chinaman‘s eye; and it is white and hard, and not so very large. If you know what a watermelon-seed looks like, you will know the shape and about the size of the pumpkin-seed.
This pumpkin-seed was planted in a little hilled-up mound in the brown earth of the garden, and one day sprouted up as a two-leaved plant; and then from the centre of the two leaves, other leaves of a different shape from the first came, and by-and-by a stem and more leaves, and soon the pumpkin-vine had started out upon its adventures in the garden. It grew about the mound, and did not try to climb up things, though it had little curly tendrils like a grape-vine's, and could reach back and catch hold of its own stem in places, and this held it in a solid mass better than as though it simply wandered about without sometimes doubling back upon its tracks.
Then the pumpkin-vine had buds. The buds swelled and became large rich-yellow lily-shaped or trumpet-shaped blossoms, and even the bumblebees came down to bumble into the golden cups, and find the honey. I do not know what pumpkinblossom honey tastes like, but I am sure it must be good or the bumblebees and the honey-bees would not trouble themselves to come after it.
When the blossoms were gone, there were small yellowish-green round things in their places—and these were baby pumpkins. They lost the yellowish color after awhile, and were green. Then as they grew to big pumpkins, they became the richest dark-bright—if there is such a word—yellow you ever saw.
The pumpkins took a long time to grow to their full size, and they were long in coloring up, but it paid to take all summer to do it in, for when they really were ready for picking, they were gorgeous to look at.
Malcolm Dwigh-t’s father sold all but one of these great, fine pumpkins, and it seemed almost a pity, because all the Dwights liked pumpkins to use for pies and other things, as well as any one. Malcolm heard his father say he wished he had planted more, and that next year he would. The Dwight family had never been rich, nor even more than moderately well off. so when Mr. Dwight had so good a chance to sell his pumpkins at a high price, he could not let the chance go.
Malcolm teased and teased for a pumpkin for a Jack-o’-lantern; but with only one pumpkin left, of course it would have
been too bad to use it for a plaything. Mother knew she could use the pumpkin for the good of all, in a much better way.
“Just wait,” said mother, “and we’ll see what we shall see!”
One day, she made the pumpkin into pies. They smelled good, too, when she was cooking the pumpkin; then all the seasoning, and sweetening, and things that make it so delicious that you always wish you could have at least two pieces, made it smell better still. Malcolm was so hungry when he smelled the pies baking, that he wished and wished he could have a whole pumpkin-pie some day for his very own.
Maybe you will be surprised when I tell you that his wish came true the same day he wished! When Malcolm sat down to dinner, he did not know it was coming true, and even up to the time dessert was passed he did not know. Every one had been given a piece of pie which was cut in the pantry—every one except Malcolm. His turn almost always had to be the very last in everything, because he was the only boy, and grown people and sisters must be served first.
When Mrs. Dwight came from the pantry with his plate, at last, she was smiling, and in her hand she held, not a plate with a triangle of pic on it such as the others had, but a square box. She set it down in front of Malcolm, and told him to take the cover off. Inside was something yellow.
“Careful, now,” said mother.
So carefully he lifted out the yellow thing—a thing in yellow crepe paper. Unwrapping the paper, he saw a round golden-yellow J ack-o’-lantern face grinning at him. A card on the side said,—
Dear Malcolm, lift my face, and fly
A piece of Jack-o’-lantern pie!
Malcolm lifted the paper face—exactly like a real Jack-o’-lantern’s—and underneath he saw a large round saucer filled with a large round piel When he found that the whole pie really was for him, and that the rest of the family had such large pieces themselves that they would not take even the smallest piece of his when he generously offered to pass it around, he thought, after all, it paid to give up his own way about a thing, especially when the giving up of a plaything like a Jack-0'-lantern turned into so fine a reward as a Jack-o'-lantern pie!

Autumn sunset by Charles Dickens

A Ford Across the Way

Autumn sunset by Charles Dickens

It was pretty late in the autumn of the year, when the declining sun, struggling through the mist which had obscured it all day, looked brightly down upon a little Wiltshire village, within an easy journey of the fair old town of Salisbury.
Like a sudden flash of memory or spirit kindling up the mind of an old man, it shed a glory upon the scene, in which its departed youth and freshness seemed to live again. The wet grass sparkled in the light; the scanty patches of verdure in the hedges—where a few green twigs yet stood together bravely, resisting to the last the tyranny of nipping winds and early frosts—took heart and brightened up; the stream which had been dull and sullen all day long, broke out into a cheerful smile; the birds began to chirp and twitter on the naked boughs, as though the hopeful creatures half believed that winter had gone by, and spring had come already. The vane upon the tapering spire of the old church glistened from its lofty station in sympathy with the general gladness; and from the ivy-shaded windows such gleams of light shone back upon the glowing sky, that it seemed as if the quiet buildings were the hoarding-place of twenty summers, and all their ruddiness and warmth were stored within.
Even those tokens of the season which emphatically whispered of the coming winter, graced the landscape, and, for the moment, tinged its livelier features with no oppressive air of sadness. The fallen leaves, with which the ground was strewn, gave forth a pleasant fragrance, and subduing all harsh sounds of distant feet and wheels, created a repose in gentle unison with the light scattering of seed hither and thither by the distant husbandman, and with the noiseless passage of the plough as it turned up the rich brown earth, and wrought a graceful pattern in the stubbled fields. On the motionless branches of some trees, autumn berries hung like clusters of coral beads, as in those fabled orchards where the fruits were jewels; others, stripped of all their garniture, stood, each the centre of its little heap of bright red leaves, watching their slow decay; others again, still wearing theirs, had them all crunched and crackled up, as though they had been burnt; about the stems of some were piled, in ruddy mounds, the apples they had borne that year; while others (hardy evergreens this class) showed somewhat stern and gloomy in their vigour, as charged by nature with the admonition that it is not to her more sensitive and joyous favorites, she grants the longest term of life. Still athwart their darker boughs, the sunbeams struck out paths of deeper gold; and the red light, mantling in among their swarthy branches, used them as foils to set its brightness off, and aid the lustre of the dying day.

Scent Memories by Fancis Jacox

Memories of youth.

Scent Memories by Fancis Jacox(click here to read essay)

Scent and Memory

Autumn Memories
Scent and Memory(click here to read article)

A Wagon Ride in the Country

The Wagon 
May I be indulged in a few pastoral remembrances before I settle down to the serious work of my subject? Some of the most radiant memories of my early life are my visits to the country. I remember the thrills of anticipation that made glorious the days preceding the one of the appointed visit; the get ting together small gifts for the dearly loved, the field and hedge scented cousins, the early breakfast, the heart throbbing suspense of waiting for the wagon. And when the wagon came, the delight of climbing into it, and feeling that the consummation devoutly wished for was now slowly and surely enfolding us. The wagon itself was none of your fancy, dainty affairs of luxurious locomotion.
Bless you! it was a regular old grinder, thumper and thunderer. It raised an earthquake of sound and an earthquake of motion. Seated in it, you could not talk without biting your tongue, and you grew numb in many spots from the merciless St. Vitus' dance of the monster. It was all Puritanical adamant without sanctimoniousness of springs or sentiment of cushions or poetry of paint. It was a huge box on stout wheels, and was pulled by two spotted, fat straight backed, unsophisticated horses. Before we got to the line of country versus town, the dirty town air was all thumped out of our quivering lungs, and the welcoming zephyrs of the country broke upon us in waves of beauty, color and fragrance.
We were literally churned by the time the five miles of up and down hill were jolted over, and were so hungry that the blood of an hundred blushes, if blushed at this late day would not express our mature mortification at the shameless havoc we made upon the nectar and ambrosia of the farm house table—aye, and the brazen visits between meals to the spring-house, orchard and pantry.
But I am not done with the wagon. Its ponderous wheel-hubs dripped with a mixture of tar and grease, black, shining, jellied and fragrant. Yes, fragrant. Don't sneer, fair and dainty critic. Can you not recall scenes of enchanting romance and bewildering sentiment, thrilling hand pressures and ecstatic eyeglances, when the scent of tuberoses or heliotrope steals upon your delicate nostrils? Ah ! you blush. You are convinced. On the same sweet principle of powerful and tender association, is the odor of tar and wagon grease dear and magical to my faithful nostrils. Whenever that insinuating, assertive fragrance is wafted to the sensitive membrane of my constant nose, there pass to my sensibilities and brain thrills of joyful memory to which only a poet could do justice.
For, are not the memories of childhood the records of a journey 'mid wonders, enchantments and magic? "No art can paint or gild" scenes in after life with the glory that decked everything when we though the world a paradise. We see no such landscapes now, no such castled cities in clouds and sunsets; we dream no such future of magical achievements. We have found out that a landscape is made up "of mountain, valley, stream and sky; that the country means geology, chemistry and crops.
Alas! How practical and prosaic the necessary anatomizing of life makes us. How the glow fades from even the rose when we interrogate it, and the music from the bird's notes, when we attempt to ask the sentiment of its song. But the old wagon has never lost its charm for me, and could I greet the fragrance of its voluptuous wheels I would find rising before me all those enchanting, first illuminations of my childhood's country visits.
The puzzle of growing things delighted me; the very weeds were exquisitely saucy and attractive; the dew was a wonder; the heavenly expanse, unbroken from horizon to horizon, was a sublime joy; the grand awakenings to fragrant mornings; the country sounds of lowing herds, of concerts of birds, the echoes of the shrill cry and the soft laugh, the contrast of sound and silence, each and all of these were magnificent mysteries. The dream-inspiring sunsets, the long slanting evening shadows with their Japanese effects, the slow march homeward of the punctual cows, the solemn stillness of the opal-tinted twilight, the distant, plaintive note of the whip-poor-will, the stealing forth of Night, with bare, silent feet and diadem of stars, all these were beautiful enigmas, long since vainly interrogated, though swept by the sad toned zephyrs of life and loss, as the winds sweep aeolian harp strings.
To pluck the fruit; to sally forth in bold warfare against the repulsive, soulshuddering tomato worm, to help pick tomatoes; to defy snakes, toads, and a hundred unknown monsters in the berry patch; to stand bravely close to the cow's terrible heels and horns; to climb a tree, to hunt eggs at risk of limbs; to change one's climate from the hot tropic of noon to the mild chill of the springhouse; to peep into bureau drawers whose fragrance was that of fields and oldf ashioned flower gardens; to see the long preserved treasures and souvenirs of a simple country life kept carefully from dust and sacrilegious hands; to watch the mysteries of the sweet, clean, great kitchen; to drop into the one luxurious chair in the darkened, prim parlor, and dream that all these delights were mine to have and hold forever, all these and more, have left ineffaceable pictures in my memory.
And I am quite sure that no faces in all the years since have glowed with the honest love and candor that made more than beautiful the countenances of my beloved country cousins, when life was as I have described it.
Annual Report of the Ohio State Board of Agriculture, Volume 38, Part 1883

Moonlight in Autumn

Harvest Moon, 'globed in mellow splendour

This is the Harvest Moon—the yearly sign
Of Providence Divine.
■Seed-time and Harvest, over hill and vale,
Fail not to come, nor ever shall they fail.
The full-orhed Moon is shining in her might,
And men might "harvest" in her bounteous light;
The air is mild and calm,
Breathing delicious balm,
The perfume of a thousand fields of corn,
And luscious fruitage ripe, and orchards fair,
Mixed with the fragrance of autumnal bloom.
Plenty has emptied her full horn:
And now man's labor and long care
Ends in the joyous chorus—Harvest Home!

The Moon looks down with bright, benignant smile,
As though she shared tho bounty man receives.
How vast the gain of toil!
How wide the range of sheaves,
Dotting the uplands, o'er the valleys spread,
And crowning the hill-tops!
From Heaven God sends us wheaten bread,
And still the manna drops.
In plentiful supply, down from above,
That man may live, and know that God is love.

But see! black clouds are gathering in tho sky—
The moon is veiled in darkness, and the wind
Rises into a gale—a storm is nigh!
And now along the horizon a wild flash
Of lightning blazes, followed close behind
By a loud thunder-crash,
And then a sudden rain—
Sudden, but short, for soon the clouds disperse,
And moonlight smiles again—
Moonlight, more beautiful than poet's verse.
The storm has cleared the air,
And freshened Nature, parched by lengthened drought,
Owns her Creator's care.

'Tis twilight, and the eyes of morning greet
The opening day;
The harvest-men are waking, and their feet
Plod on their early way;
The thrush is singing to the morning star,
And soon his buoyant song awakes the lark.
Hark! how the peasants whistle, and I hear
The faithful watch-dog's bark.
Benjamin Goran.

Elegy to the Harvest Moon

The Harvest Moon

 Elegy to the Harvest Moon

The stream of day, smooth from its source,
Through vales of evergreen delight,
Here wandering winds its devious course,
With moonbeams on the lake of night.-Achmend Ardebeili, A Persian Exile

I, Joyous, hail thy crescent's silvery light,
Kind pledge of bounteous Nature s promis'd boon;
Thy growing lustre soon will gild the night,
And grateful hearts will hail the Harvest Moon.

Though gaudy Summer's gayest flowers are fled,
The fairy tints of sportive Nature's loom,
Yet thou thy mild and mellow light shah shed
On richer sweets than Summer's fairest bloom:

'Tis thine to shed thy pure, translucent gleam,
Where fragrant fruits hang clustering on the wall;
The downy peach and juicy pear thy beam
Shall see, in rich and mellow ripeness fall;

The luscious nectarine, with its purple streak;
While on yon standard's broadly branching arms 
The yellow apple shews its glowing cheek,
llich as the blush of rural virgin s charms;

The husky nut attracts the urchin's eye,
He gathers clustering filberts in the vale;
The bush nods o'er the stream that murmurs by,
And there the jay, loquacious, tells her tale.

And thou wilt smile on many a heath-clad hill,
Whose purple bells breathe fragrance to the night;
The rippling wave, clear lake, and bubbling rill,
Reflecting back thy undulating light.

Though elfin feet have now forgot to tread
^ The fairy-ring, besprent with twilight dew,
Though they no more ambrosial banquets spread,
And quaff their nectar from the harebell blue;

Or lightly o'er the daisied meadow prance,
When dew-drops twinkle in the midnight ray,
And round the thorn prolong their mazy dance,
Till chanticleer proclaim approaching day:

For ever vanish'd now the tiny throng;
No moonlight revels in the flowery vale; 
They only serve to grace the minstrel's song,
And live in grandam's legendary tale.

But thou shalt see o'er Scotia's sea-girt isle,
Her fruitful vales with yellow harvest crown'd;
On every plain see bounteous Nature smile,
Ami Plenty shed her golden treasure round.

Yes, thou shalt see the poor man's heart rejoice,
As he with gladness gathers in the spoil;
And hear him raise to Heaven his grateful voice,
Whose ripen'd bounty thus rewards his toil.

Now thou art sinking in the distant -west,
And stars shall twinkle in the midnight sky,
Till glowing on the brown-hill's shadowy breast,
The blush of morning blot them from the eye.

He comes—a slender thread of burnish'd gold
Appears above old Ocean's watery bed
Still brighter—now in glory manifold,
The star of day displays his radiant head.

The fleecy cloud before his presence flies,
And morning mists in thin air melt away;
On viewless wings the dews of night arise,
And all abroad is pour'd a flood of day.

Now labour's children to their toil repair,
To reap the treasure from the ripeu'd field;
Childhood, old age, young men, and maidens fair,
The sweeping scythe, or reaping-hook, to wield.

The day is warm—fatiguing their employ,
Still cheerful, still untir'd, their task they ply;
The bloom of health, the glance of love and joy
Glows on each cheek, and gladdens every eye.

The woodlands glow with many-coloured shades,
Now richly blending in the evening sun, 
As Summer's verdure from their branches fades,
Green, yellow, filemot, red, brown, and dun.

'Tis night—for vanish'd is the lord of day,
A crimson canopy enshrouds his head;
And Twilight, robed in gold and purple gay,
Has o'er the west her glowing mantle spread.

And now I gladly hail thy orient glow;
Full-orb'd and fair, I see thee rise again; 
Thou'rt smiling softly on the green hill's brow,
Thy light is glimmering in the dim wood glen.

Mild orb of light, behold creation fair;
How beautiful, how varied is the scene! 
The shrubby dell, the grey rock, rude and bare,
The streamlet, gliding o'er the meadow green.

No sportsman's thunder echoes on the moor,
No pointer glides among the rustling corn;
Beneath thy beam the heathcock sleeps secure,
But wakes to terror with returning morn.

The swelling sail that skims along the deep
Is seen afar, white in thy silver light;
The shepherd hails thee as he folds his sheep;
The watch-dog bays thy form, at noon of night.

Hark! the loud laugh—the song of sportive glee—
Glad Echo, from her cave, repeats the strain;
'Tis joyous reapers, from their labour free,
A blithesome band, slow passing o'er the plain.

The widow'd gleaner bends beneath her load,
Her tiny grand-child prattling by her side;
To her the bank is steep, and long the road,
And lone the cot, where she her head must hide.

Shine out, bright orb, to light her lonely way;
For she is weak, and faint, and wearied sore; 
O may no murky cloud obscure thy ray,
Till she in safety reach her cottage door!

And thou wilt see, deep in the shady vale,
Beneath the thorn, a fond and loving pair;
In whispers soft they breathe Love's tender tale;
O spare a virgin's shame, and shine not there!

Let not thy light a maiden's blush betray,
Nor shew the glances of her bright black eye;
And may some whispering zephyr bear away,
Unheard by William's ear, her love-sick sigh.

Though she is guileless as the gentle dove,
Yet bashful modesty and maiden pride, 
The constant handmaids of unspotted love,
Constrain her glowing heart that love to hide.

It may not be—her softly-swelling breast,
That heaves and throbs in his enfolding arms,
Her ripe red lip, with raptur'd fondness press'd,
Betray her love—her bosom's soft alarms.

And, haply, thou may'st gild the glistening tear,
That speaks the grief the tongue wants power to tell,
When two fond hearts, close link d in union dear,
Responsive throb, and take a long farewell.

Smile on the hapless pair—then let thy beam
On yonder bank of blossom'd wild-thyme sleep;
Or light the swain, who guides his loaded team
Of swelling sheaves, slow down the rugged steep.

And in the barn-yard pour meridian light,
Where swells the stack beneath the builder's knee;
The master's heart elate with fond delight,
Its towering head and lengthen'd shade to see.

Thy waning beam may, haply, light at morn
A youthful train, arous'd from short repose,
Who, ere the dawn, stoop o'er the bending corn,
The rural labours of the year to close.

And thou may'st see them in the festive dance,
See many a blushing fair and happy swain,
On them, perhaps, bestow a parting glance,
As Tom leads Susan lightly o'er the plain.

And ere thou hast renew'd thy circling horn,
The naked plains, chill fogs, and woodlands sere,
The falling leaf, the brown haw on the thorn,
Will all proclaim that grizzly Winter's near.

Thy growing light and changing form declare
The march of Time—and thou wilt vanish soon;
Thou art a monitor, that cries, " Prepare!
Since life is short, improve its Harvest Moon!"

Fragrance of Gingerbread

Hot Spiced Gingerbread

WON'T you always remember the time, when as a child you came home from school as hungry as a bear and opened the old stone crock to find a chunk of toothsome gingerbread; or will you ever forget the delightful fragrance of the spicy, soft gingerbread that Mother had for supper on chilly nights? To make these old-time favorites requires but little time and labor, and many pleasing variations of more modern invention may be evolved from them.
American Cookery, Volume 25

The silence was heavy for a moment; then I heard a rattle, and, recognizing the sound that had wakened me, rose and peered through the vines. There on a fencerail sat a kingfisher, chuckling to himself in great glee. I reached over to see him better, and nearly lost my balance; whereupon the
the nature of the distraction—the fragrance of hot gingerbread Lorna was nowhere. I picked up the lines and drove, by scent, a few rods. Then we came out upon the hilltop, and I perceived a small, plain house at my left. The fragrance was becoming deliciously seductive, and, as the big gate was open, I drove into the yard. Then I forgot the gingerbread, and gazed in ecstasy at the expanse of forest and ocean that lay at my feet. It was gloriously clear, and the lighthouse and snowy sails shone vividly against the blue sea, which a trail of smoke from a steamer gave a touch of gray. My meditations were interrupted by a slight cough, and I turned to see the farm wife standing in the doorway—a dull-eyed, pale-faced woman well along in years. “A magnificent view,” I said. “Mighty lonesome,” she replied. I gazed about. There were but half a dozen houses on the hill, and several looked deserted. With my eyes turned from the absorbing view I scented gingerbread again. “I beg pardon, but the fragrance of your gingerbread is what drew me here.” The ghost of a smile came over her face. “It’s cookies,” she Said. “So much the better. May I have some?” She brought a plateful of big, soft, warm cakes, and I devoured them recklessly while my hostess looked on in gentle appreciation. “Would you like a drink?” she asked, and I followed her to where the well buckets hung from the roof of the shed. What a well that was ! Down, down, down, into the darkness went the bucket, and came up full of the clearest, coldest water I ever drank. It was more thoroughly cold than ice water, and many times more refreshing. I remembered Jonah, and offered him a luncheon. He daintily accepted one cookie, but refused to drink. I was astonished. “Some horses don't like it so cold,” said my hostess, so I climbed into my buggy and dropped a silver piece into her hand. She began a protest, but I called back: “Buy something to remember me by. I shall never forget the view, the well, and the cookies.” 
The Epworth Herald, Volume 14

There was great crowding, and generally the weather was rainy; but it did not destroy the fragrance of the honey-cakes and the gingerbread, of which there was a booth quite full; and the best of it was, that the man who kept this booth came every year to lodge during the fair-time in the dwelling of little Knud's father. Consequently there came a present of a bit of gingerbread every now and then, and of course Joanna received her share of the gift. But perhaps the most charming thing of all was that the gingerbread dealer knew all sorts of tales, and could even relate histories about his own gingerbread cakes; and one evening, in particular, he told a story about them which made such a deep impression on the children that they never forgot it; and for that reason it is perhaps advisable that we should hear it too, more especially as the story is not long.
"On the shop-board," he said, "lay two gingerbread cakes, one in the shape of a man with a hat, the other of a maiden without a bonnet; both their faces were on the side that was uppermost, for they were to be looked at on that side, and not on the other; and, indeed, most people have a favorable side from which they should be viewed. On the left side the man wore a bitter almond — that was his heart; but the maiden, on the other hand, was honey-cake all over. They were placed as samples on the shop-board, and remaining there a long time, at last they fell in love with one another, but neither told the other, as they should have done if they had expected anything to come of it.
Stories and Tales
 By Hans Christian Andersen

It was wonderful gingerbread, thick, lightly porous, stickily glistening on top and fragrant with an appetizing fragrance. Orlando Biddlebury was passionately fond of it, so fond of it that every day the enticing odor of freshly baked gingerbread permeated the house. He liked it best when fresh, and that may have been why he ate all there was every day. He was sure, then, to have it fresh the next day.
The Green Book Magazine, Volumes 21-22

"Yes, yes," interrupted the old lady, nodding; "I made the hood, and the tippet. I am Kriss Kringle's own sister. I love children just as well as he does, and I help make the gifts. I do the knitting, and I make all the candy, and the gingerbread. Just sit down here in my chair, and I'll give you a taste of my peppermint candy and gingerbread."
So Kitty sat down in her great, cushiony chair, and Miss Kringle tripped to her tall, red cupboard, and brought her three sticks of peppermint candy, in a queer, blue cup, and a great slice of fragrant gingerbread on a- pink, scalloped plate.
"Isn't it delicious?" she asked, watching Kitty while she ate it. But she didn't wait for an answer, for she knew very well what Kitty thought, because her eyes sparkled so.
The Little Corporal, Volumes 8-10
 By Emily Huntington Miller

DONNING a new lavender necktie and white vest, "on a fine, hot day in September," garments especially unsuited to the nature of my quest, I started out to learn just how stoves and heaters are made, for these are now the representatives of our fathers' hearth-stones and are the firesides of today. This was a desire long entertained and often revived whenever I recalled my boyhood visits at grandmother's. The pride and solicitude with which she cared for and regarded the brick hearth and new stove are associated with boyish memories that still have an enduring charm. What pleasant recollections they are—
of rich, brown-crusted, new-made loaves; light pie crust, aromatic gingerbread, pies of peach, squash, custard, cranberry, rhubarb and mince, with savory pots of beans, and steaming brown bread! When she smiled benevolently at one of "her boys," with a new ginger cooky fresh from the oven in hand, ah, what delicious memories arise! It always makes me hungry to think about it. To me, as to the peoples of ancient days, there cluster no more romantic memories than around the kitchen hearth. In the complex religion of the Romans it was believed that their Lares and Penates, the tutelary and household gods, -were domiciled on the hearthstone, and hence it became a venerated spot. 
National Magazine, Volume 29

The rose-brown mists of the May twilight lay entangled in the rose-brown boughs of budding elm and oak trees massed against the sky. A bird sang; a dog barked; a clear star was visible through the mists. He saw his favorite terrier cross the lawn in the direction of the stables, ears and tail erect. Oh life-—release, how wonderful, how much to be desired. Hark! his mother was beginning to play the piano, she sang softly. There was the smell of gingerbread coming from the kitchen. Gingerbread! How much he loved it! They were going to have gingerbread for supper.
The Touchstone, Volume 6
 By Mary Fanton Roberts

Scent of Buckwheat Fields

Bluehendes Buchweizenfeld

By Irene Pomeroy Shields
There’s a perfume that I know,
Where the fields are white as snow,
Sweeter far than isles of spice in southern seas;
’Tis the buckwheat-fields in bloom,
While from out the forest gloom,
Steals the scent of honeyed basswood on the breeze.
When my last good-by is said, Lay my tired, whitened head,
Underneath no solemn, stately, marble tomb;
Give me just a quiet grave,
Where the fields of buckwheat wave,
And the basswood boughs above me bud and bloom.

When we came to another farm-stead we sent W. B. to negotiate. He went reluctantly; but he came not back again. We thrust our canoe into a bed of purple irises, and basked for half an hour among the netted shadows and the green and golden dragon-flies. Then we grew anxious. Ten minutes should have sufficed for W. B., who was swift of foot and prompt. We were not impatient, for the river murmured sweetly past us; the canoe rocked softly among the irises; the wind blew puffs of honey-scent from the buckwheat fields in our faces, and the dragonflies tolerated our presence. But. after an hour of this lotus-eating, we roused ourselves to rescue W. B. This house was in the valley. Behind the house we found a
shady yard; and in the shady yard a great brown horse-trough, streaked with green moss, a clear rill out of the neighboring hillside brimming it with crystal coolness
Outing, Volume 6

What a pleasant ride that was: out of the field where the bars had been let down; past other fields ready, or nearly ready, for the harvesting; pale green oats, and golden wheat, the white, sweet-scented buckwheat, and the tall Indian corn; then through the orchard where a flock of sheep were feeding, past the locust grove, and then into the farmyard; stopping at last between the open doors of the great barn!
Bessie among the mountains
 By Joanna Hooe Mathews

Beautiful beyond,
The thick green woods crowd down from the steep hills,
With their dark growth of beech, and stately trunks
Of knotty hemlock; huge, moss-covered trees,
Which on these heights have drank the freshening rains
Of centuries, and lodged the anchorite crow
Amid the snow and cold of many a long
And dismal winter. A wild, narrow path,
Moist with the issues of cool forest springs
That well beneath the twisted roots above.
Winds through the long, stee wood, o'er banks of moss,
And underneath large, ragges trunks of elm.
Split by the lightning. High o‘erhead, the wind
That freshens in the distant harvest-fields
Makes a sweet murmur in the pines that drop
Their brown cones on the summit, bearing in
Through the close maple-boughs, and leaves that dance
Far down the shaggy steeps, the scent of flowers,
And buckwheat blossoms whitening amid
The blaze of August. 
The Knickerbocker; Or, New-York Monthly Magazine, Volume 21

Our road then suddenly left the river valley, striking through a thrifty wood up a rocky hill-side, and passing over the eminence, we looked down upon a rich “ bottom,”girdled with hills, and walled by crags in some places, which rose abruptly from the green meadow as from the surface of a lake, whose bed it doubtless was at no very remote period. A fine stream traversed this grassy flat, which was crossed by a road of made ground hedged with silver willows. A few bleak looking fields of rough arable land succeeded, and then another valley, with a beautifully undulating surface, dotted here and there with stone farm-houses and great red barns, and perfectly odorous with the fragrance of buckwheat fields. The color of these barns per se is in execrable taste; but the effect in a landscape is like that of a red flannel shirt upon a fisherman in a sea. piece ; each relieves not only the prevailing color of blue or green, as‘ the case may be, but the decided hue often sets off the softer shades of other tints; giving at once to the picture warmth from itself, and delicacy from the other colors, which are thus thrown in contrast.
The American Monthly Magazine, Volume 8

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples: some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slap-jacks, well-buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.
The world's wit and humor: an encyclopedia of the classic wit and ..., Volume 1
 edited by Lionel Strachey


Buchweizenfelder am Weyerberg

OH, the buckwheat bloom! Oh, the buckwheat bloom!
Where the sunbeams sleep and the wild bees boom,
Where the brown leaves fall and the sweet winds croon
Through the lengthened shades of the afternoon;
There the white fields lie in the wood's embrace,
And the stream slips by with a smiling face—
'Twixt the roadside fence and the woodside gloom,
Are the fragrant billows of buckwheat bloom.

Oh, the buckwheat bloom! Oh, the buckwheat bloom!
When the skies are soft, and the gray hills loom
Through the distant reaches of amber light—
When the goldenrod by the stream is bright;
Then I love to stray where the warm winds catch
At the milk-white spray in the buckwheat patch—
From the roadside fence to the woodside gloom,
Through the fragrant billows of buckwheat bloom.

Oh, the buckwheat bloom! Oh, the buckwheat bloom!
When the blackbird swings on a bending plume
Of the golden corn, as it nods and sways
In the yellow light of the autumn days;
Then I close my eyes, and my senses yield
To the spell that lies in the buckwheat field
'Twixt the roadside fence and the woodside gloom,
'Mong the fragrant billows of buckwheat bloom.
Songs from the Heart of Things: A Complete Collection of All the Best Poems ...
 By James Ball Naylor

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Cedar perfume ingredient, Cedar fragrance and essential .



Scent of Christmas

"I remember, I remember
How my childhood fleeted by, —
The mirth of its December,
And the warmth of its July."
WHEN dusk closed in it would be Christmas eve. All day I had three points — a chair beside the kitchen table, a lookout melted through the frost on the front window, and the big sitting-room fireplace. All the perfumes of Araby floated from our kitchen that day. There was that delicious smell of baking flour from big snowy loaves of bread, light biscuit, golden coffee cake, and cinnamon rolls dripping a waxy mixture of sugar, butter, and spice, much better than the finest butterscotch ever brought from the city. There was the tempting odour of boiling ham and baking pies. The air was filled with the smell of more herbs and spices than I knew the names of, that went into mincemeat, fruit cake, plum pudding, and pies. There was a teasing fragrance in the spiced vinegar heating for pickles, a reminder of winesap and rambo in the boiling cider, while the newly opened bottles of grape juice filled the house with the tang of Concord and muscadine. It seemed to me I never got nicely fixed where I could take a sly dip in the cake dough or snipe a fat raisin from the mincemeat but Candace would say: "Don't you suppose the backlog is halfway down the lane?"
Laddie: A True Blue Story
 By Gene Stratton-Porter

I WONDER how many of my little readers have read that most tender and touching of all the Christmas stories which Charles Dickens wrote to please the. whole world,the one. in which Tiny Tim and the rest of the Cratchitt family appear? I hope they have not forgotten Mrs. Cralchitt's famous pudding, brought on at the end of the feast, with a sprig of holly in tho top, and such a delightful mingling of odors about it, that the very smell was enough to make the eyes water with relish before a slice was cut.
One of the chief charms of Christmas cooking is, in my opinion, its fragrance. Such whiffs and wafts of spice and fruit, such scents of linking and stewing, such an aroma as steals from tho kitchen through the entire house is perfectly captivating to all who like good cheer.
Harper's Round Table, Volume 14

The room was so full of light and warmth and evergreen fragrance that, spacious as it was, it seemed bursting with it all. At first it was a daze of brilliance—a dazzle of light. But at last one saw that the centre of it all, the luminous source of the rays of light and color and fragrance, was the magical tree that stood in the heart of it. Finely symmetrical, from its pointed apex to its wide-spreading lowest boughs, not unlike a heart in shape, it existed only to be decked with countless messages of joy. Every twig had its buoyantly upraised burden of toy or tinsel or chain or candle. Yet its green recesses seemed to promise secret troves of treasure, more precious than any displayed. A mortal tree it was, grown in a familiar, near-by forest. decked by the hands they knew. Yet, for one enchanted instant, it seemed to the eyes of the family gathered there to be no mere thing of spiralled boughs and clustered needles. Instead, it was the heart of love made conscious, kindled on
every hearth in the awakened land—glowing—palpitating—launching forth its sacred fire of adoration.Harper's Monthly Magazine, Volume 122

Adrian Berridge paused on the threshold, as was his wont, with closed eyes and dilated nostrils, enjoying the aroma of complex freshness which the dining-room had at this hour. Pathetically a creature of habit, he liked to savour the various scents, sweet or acrid, that went to symbolise for him the time and the place. Here were the immediate scents of dry toast, of China tea of napery fresh from the wash, together with that vague, super-subtle scent which boiled eggs give out through their unbroken shells. And as a permanent base to these there was the scent of much-polished Chippendale, and of bees'-waxed parquet, and of Persian rugs. To-day, moreover, crowning the composition, there was the delicate pungency of the holly that topped the Queen Anne mirror and the Mantegna prints.
A Christmas Garland
 By Sir Max Beerbohm

When Our Mother was no older than Secunda, if indeed, she was as old—children seem to grow more childish with every decade-she was given a thrillingly important part in a Christmas operetta which took place in a Sunday-school room. Our Mother and another musical infant, robed in clean, silvery nightgowns, kneeled decorously at the knees of a pretend mother—she was really a young lady who had never had any children and had not the remotest idea how to get them into the bed when they had finished their prayer—and sang “Now I lay me” in six-eight time. When the other infant sang wrong, Our Mother kicked her. Then they pretended to go to sleep, and it grew dark; finally, a great hairy Santa Claus came in, and sang in a loud bass voice, and picked them up out of the bed, and his beard tickled. There was, somehow, connected with this man a little dark-blue saucer, with two segments of a very fat Christmas candycane stuck together in it; and now, after all these years, each one of four seasons, with all their months and days and hours, if on a darkened stage, in a tense hush, a large man with a beard ever sings in a bass voice, across the generation that stretches between that nightgowned imp and Our Mother there blows a faint, far scent of peppermint, and somewhere inside her brain she is aware that the odor comes from two fat segments of striped candy-cane reposing in a little dark-blue saucer!
The Delineator, Volume 89
 edited by R. S. O'Loughlin, H. F. Montgomery, Charles Dwyer
"I did not come home for that, grandmamma. I was homesick for the Christmas-tree,—a Christmas in the sitting-room down-stairs. I am tired of the confectionery figures and masterpieces of bookbinding which Aunt Elise buys and hangs on the tree with no pains at all. I want to spend one of those preparatory evenings, when it is snowing and storming outside, and within the warm room the nuts are rattling upon the table, the gold-leaf is flying about, and the fragrance of the home-made cookies, and of all kinds of gingerbread monsters, is coming through the keyhole and cracks of the kitchen-door. I cannot, to be sure, have the finest sight of all,—Aunt Sophie's covered work-basket, disclosing some fragment now and then of a gorgeous doll's toilette, and, unfortunately, I have outgrown the picture-books. But I insist upon Biirbe's baking for me, as she always used to do, a gingerbread horseman."
The Lady with the Rubies: A Novel
 By Eugenie Marlitt
If upon Christmas morning, something was missed by the four Corners, it was a time of wonder and delight to Daniella. Never in all her after life did she forget the odor of the burning candles mixed with the fragrance of the fir tree and the sweet, appetizing, spicy smell of the gingerbread man, the nutty candies and the orange she found in her stocking. Never did she forget how they all stood around the tree in the semi-darkened room whose only light came from the candles, and sang, "Hark the herald angels sing."
The Four Corners
 By Amy Ella Blanchard
December Eli—T0 what shall I liken the smell of the pine needle ?
Coming down the street this morning I picked up a little branch of a pine tree from the pavement. I stripped off the needles, bruised them thoroughly in my hands, and took a long inspiration of their fragrance. It was a bit of the country transplanted to the city. It filled me with a new life. Again and again I held the handful of green to my nostrils.
Far better than the insipid sweetness of cologne is
this strong, healthy, woody, aromatic odor of the pine needle.
All day long I have kept the handful of needles on my desk, and ever and anon my mind wanders to a forest of stately trees, green in winter, and their tops moving to and fro in the wind.
The Continent, Volume 3