"I know a bank whereon the Wild Thyme blows"--it is not in old England, but on Long Island; the dense clusters of tiny aromatic flowers form a thick cushioned carpet under our feet. Lord Bacon says in his essay on Gardens:-- "Those which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed are three: that is, Burnet, Wild Thyme, and Water-Mints. Therefore you are to set whole alleys of them, to have the pleasure when you walk or tread." Here we have an alley of Thyme, set by nature, for us to tread upon and enjoy, though Thyme always seems to me so classic a plant, that it is far too fine to walk upon; one ought rather to sleep and dream upon it. Great bushes of Elder, another flower of witchcraft, grow and blossom near my Thyme bank. Old Thomas Browne, as long ago as 1685 called the Elder bloom "white umbrellas"--which has puzzled me much, since we are told to assign the use and knowledge of umbrellas in England to a much later date; perhaps he really wrote umbellas. Now it is a well-known fact--sworn to in scores of old herbals, that any one who stands on Wild Thyme, by the side of an Elder bush, on Midsummer Eve, will "see great experiences"; his eyes will be opened, his wits quickened, his vision clarified; and some have even seen fairies, pixies--Shakespeare's elves--sporting over the Thyme at their feet. I shall not tell whom I saw walking on my Wild Thyme bank last Midsummer Eve. I did not need the Elder bush to open my eyes. I watched the twain strolling back and forth in the half-light, and I heard snatches of talk as they walked toward me, and I lost the responses as they turned from me. At last, in a louder voice:-- HE. "What is this jolly smell all around here? Just like a mint-julep! Some kind of a flower?" SHE. "It's Thyme, Wild Thyme; it has run into the edge of the lawn from the field, and is just ruining the grass." HE (_stooping to pick it_). "Why, so it is. I thought it came from that big white flower over there by the hedge." SHE. "No, that is Elder." HE (_after a pause_). "I had to learn a lot of old Arnold's poetry at school once, or in college, and there was some just like to-night:-- "'The evening comes--the fields are still, The tinkle of the thirsty rill, Unheard all day, ascends again. Deserted is the half-mown plain, And from the Thyme upon the height, And from the Elder-blossom white, And pale Dog Roses in the hedge, And from the Mint-plant in the sedge, In puffs of balm the night air blows The perfume which the day foregoes-- And on the pure horizon far See pulsing with the first-born star The liquid light above the hill. The evening comes--the fields are still.'"