The mullein has shot up out of its nest of broad leaves,
to a tall stalk towering sometimes five or six feet high, now studded
with knobs of golden blossoms. The milk-weed, (I see a great gorgeous
creature of gamboge and black lighting on one as I write,) is in
flower, with its delicate red fringe; and there are profuse clusters
of a feathery blossom waving in the wind on taper stems. I see lots of
these and much else in every direction, as I saunter or sit. For
the last half hour a bird has persistently kept up a simple, sweet,
melodious song, from the bushes. (I have a positive conviction that
some of these birds sing, and others fly and flirt about here for my
special benefit.)
DEATH OF WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
_New York City_.--Came on from West Philadelphia, June 13, in the 2 P.
M. train to Jersey City, and so across and to my friends, Mr. and Mrs.
J. H. J., and their large house, large family (and large hearts,)
amid which I feel at home, at peace--away up on Fifth avenue, near
Eighty-sixth street, quiet, breezy, overlooking the dense woody
fringe of the park--plenty of space and sky, birds chirping, and air
comparatively fresh and odorless. Two hours before starting, saw the
announcement of William Cullen Bryant's funeral, and felt a strong
desire to attend. I had known Mr. Bryant over thirty years ago, and he
had been markedly kind to me. Off and on, along that time for years as
they pass'd, we met and chatted together. I thought him very sociable
in his way, and a man to become attach'd to.
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