P.M.—To Conantumn.

  I think I may say that the buttercup (bulbous crow-foot) which I plucked at the Corner Spring would have
blossomed to-day . . .

  Here on this causeway is the sweetest fragrance I have perceived this season, blown from the newly flooded meadows. I cannot imagine what there is to produce it. No nosegay can equal it. It is ambrosially, nectarealh , fine and subtile, for you can see naught but the water, with green spires of meadow grass rising above it. Yet no flower from the Islands of the Blessed could smell sweeter . . .