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