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and even different hours of the day。 The odorous； fresh sea…breezes are
distinct from the fitful breezes along river banks； which are humid and
freighted with inland smells。 The bracing； light； dry air of the
mountains can never be mistaken for the pungent salt air of the ocean。
The air of winter is dense； hard； pressed。 In the spring it has new
vitality。 It is light； mobile； and laden with a thousand palpitating
odours from earth； grass； and sprouting leaves。 The air of midsummer is
dense； saturated； or dry and burning； as if it came from a furnace。 When
a cool breeze brushes the sultry stillness； it brings fewer odours than
in May； and frequently the odour of a ing tempest。 The avalanche of
coolness which sweeps through the low…hanging air bears little
resemblance to the stinging coolness of winter。
The rain of winter is raw； without odour； and dismal。 The rain of spring
is brisk； fragrant； charged with life…giving warmth。 I wele it
delightedly as it visits the earth； enriches the streams； waters the
hills abundantly； makes the furrows soft with showers for the seed；
elicits a perfume which I cannot breathe deep enough。 Spring rain is
beautiful； impartial； lovable。 With pearly drops it washes every leaf on
tree and bush； ministers equally to salutary herbs and noxious growths；
searches out every living thing that needs its beneficence。
The senses assist and reinforce each other to such an extent that I am
not sure whether touch or smell tells me the most about the world。
Everywhere the river of touch is joined by the brooks of
odour…perception。 Each season has its distinctive odours。 The spring is
earthy and full of sap。 July is rich with the odour of ripening grain
and hay。 As the season advances； a crisp； dry； mature odour
predominates； and golden…rod； tansy； and everlastings mark the onward
march of the year。 In autumn； soft； alluring scents fill the air；
floating from thicket； grass； flower； and tree； and they tell me of time
and change； of death and life's renewal； desire and its fulfilment。
FOOTNOTE：
＇B＇ George Arnold。
SMELL； THE FALLEN ANGEL
VI
SMELL； THE FALLEN ANGEL
FOR some inexplicable reason the sense of smell does not hold the high
position it deserves among its sisters。 There is something of the fallen
angel about it。 When it woos us with woodland scents and beguiles us
with the fragrance of lovely gardens； it is admitted frankly to our
discourse。 But when it gives us warning of something noxious in our
vicinity； it is treated as if the demon had got the upper hand of the
angel； and is relegated to outer darkness； punished for its faithful
service。 It is most difficult to keep the true significance of words
when one discusses the prejudices of mankind； and I find it hard to give
an account of odour…perceptions which shall be at once dignified and
truthful。
In my experience smell is most important； and I find that there is high
authority for the nobility of the sense which we have neglected and
disparaged。 It is recorded that the Lord manded that incense be burnt
before him continually with a sweet savour。 I doubt if there is any
sensation arising from sight more delightful than the odours which
filter through sun…warmed； wind…tossed branches； or the tide of scents
which swells； subsides； rises again wave on wave； filling the wide world
with invisible sweetness。 A whiff of the universe makes us dream of
worlds we have never seen； recalls in a flash entire epochs of our
dearest experience。 I never smell daisies without living over again the
ecstatic mornings that my teacher and I spent wandering in the fields；
while I learned new words and the names of things。 Smell is a potent
wizard that transports us across a thousand miles and all the years we
have lived。 The odour of fruits wafts me to my Southern home； to my
childish frolics in the peach orchard。 Other odours； instantaneous and
fleeting； cause my heart to dilate joyously or contract with remembered
grief。 Even as I think of smells； my nose is full of scents that start
awake sweet memories of summers gone and ripening grain fields far away。
The faintest whiff from a meadow where the new…mown hay lies in the hot
sun displaces the here and the now。 I am back again in the old red barn。
My little friends and I are playing in the haymow。 A huge mow it is；
packed with crisp； sweet hay； from the top of which the smallest child
can reach the straining rafters。 In their stalls beneath are the farm
animals。 Here is Jerry； unresponsive； unbeautiful Jerry； crunching his
oats like a true pessimist； resolved to find his feed not good……at least
not so good as it ought to be。 Again I touch Brownie； eager； grateful
little Brownie； ready to leave the juiciest fodder for a pat； straining
his beautiful； slender neck for a caress。 Near by stands Lady Belle；
with sweet； moist mouth； lazily extracting the sealed…up cordial from
timothy and clover； and dreaming of deep June pastures and murmurous
streams。
The sense of smell has told me of a ing storm hours before there was
any sign of it visible。 I notice first a throb of expectancy； a slight
quiver； a concentration in my nostrils。 As the storm draws nearer； my
nostrils dilate the better to receive the flood of earth…odours which
seem to multiply and extend； until I feel the splash of rain against my
cheek。 As the tempest departs； receding farther and farther； the odours
fade； bee fainter and fainter； and die away beyond the bar of space。
I know by smell the kind of house we enter。 I have recognized an
old…fashioned country house because it has several layers of odours；
left by a succession of families； of plants； perfumes； and draperies。
In the evening quiet there are fewer vibrations than in the daytime； and
then I rely more largely upon smell。 The sulphuric scent of a match
tells me that the lamps are being lighted。 Later I note the wavering
trail of odour that flits about and disappears。 It is the curfew signal；
the lights are out for the night。
Out of doors I am aware by smell and touch of the ground we tread and
the places we pass。 Sometimes； when there is no wind； the odours are so
grouped t