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Updated: June 19, 2025
The emerald edges of these silent tarns are starred with dandelions which have strayed here, one scarce knows how, from their foreign home; the buck-bean perchance grows in the water, or the Rhodora fixes here one of its shy camping-places, or there are whole skies of lupine on the sloping banks; the catbird builds its nest beside us, the yellow-bird above, the wood-thrush sings late and the whippoorwill later, and sometimes the scarlet tanager and his golden-haired bride send a gleam of the tropics through these leafy aisles.
"So they do," said I. "And seeing Rhodora as she looks now, I should think she would make an efficient comrade." His face glowed. Together we observed Rhodora, standing close by Grandmother's side. The two, with Hepatica and our two men, made a group, of which not the bride-elect, but Grandmother, was the precise centre.
"He's no clergyman," insisted the Skeptic. "He's not even a minister. He's just a preacher a raw youth, just out of college knows as much about women as a puppy about elephant training. Rhodora probably sang a hymn at one of his meetings and finished him. Well, well I suppose this means another wedding present?" He looked dubiously at Hepatica. "It does, of course," she admitted.
June loitered upon all the gentle hills, and peaceful meadows, and winding brook sides. June breathed in the sweet-brier that climbed the solid stone posts of the gate-way, and clustered along the homely country stone wall. June blossomed in the yellow barberry by the road-side, and in the bright rhodora and the pale orchis in the dark woods.
The Rhodora and Terminus and perhaps a few others belong to that class of poetry which, like Abou Ben Adhem, is poetry because it is the perfection of statement. The Boston Hymn, the Concord Ode, and the other occasional pieces fall in another class, and do not seem to be important. The first two lines of the Ode, "O tenderly the haughty day Fills his blue urn with fire."
Why try to trace any stream that flows through the garden of consciousness to its source only to be confronted by another problem of tracing this source to its source? Perhaps Emerson in the Rhodora answers by not trying to explain That if eyes were made for seeing Then beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O, rival of the rose!
She patted her white curls in front of the mirror, which is an old-fashioned, oblong one, in which two people cannot well see themselves at the same time. Rhodora came up behind her, stooped to peer over her shoulder, and seized upon the ivory comb which lay on the dressing-table. Her elbow, as she ran the comb through her fluffy hair, struck Grandmother's delicate shoulder.
That was the jewel which dazzled me. I derive more of my subsistence from the swamps which surround my native town than from the cultivated gardens in the village. Botany cannot go farther than tell me the names of the shrubs which grow there, the high-blueberry, panicled andromeda, lamb-kill, azalea, and rhodora, all standing in the quaking sphagnum.
Emerson told me that he would like Una to go in and out, just as if it were her own home. I said that he was Una's friend ever since she had heard "The Humble Bee" and "The Rhodora." Una likes her native place prodigiously, and everybody near and far seems quite "angelic," as Julian would say. . . . Last Sunday Mrs. Emerson and her three children came to make a call.
That was the jewel which dazzled me. I derive more of my subsistence from the swamps which surround my native town than from the cultivated gardens in the village. Botany cannot go farther than tell me the names of the shrubs which grow there the high blueberry, panicled andromeda, lambkill, azalea, and rhodora all standing in the quaking sphagnum.
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