THE BLACKBERRY LILY. 



I N a neglected fence corner of my neighbor, Robin- 

 '■ son's orchard — a spot riotous with wilding growth 

 — a blackberry lily has set up its home. Though it 

 grows on another's ground, I have come to call it my flower,, 

 by the time-honored right of discovery ; for Robinson, thrifty 

 farmer that he is, and engrossed in the filling of his barns, 

 has never yet seen the lily in my plant, but only a weed. 



Of a bright afternoon in latter June, I like to go with a 

 trusty friend or two to enjoy the blooming of it. The star-like 

 blossoms appear in a loose cluster at the top of a slender, zig- 

 zag stem, and, being of an orange yellow color mottled with 

 crimson purple, suggest bits of leopard skin, for which reacon 

 the plant is sometimes known as leopard flower. 



If my blackberry lily were endued with the gift of speech, 

 it would have an adventurous tale of family history to tell ; 

 for to reach America it has traveled half around the globe. 

 It is a native of China and the far East, whence it was brought 

 hither generations ago for cultivation in flower gardens. Be- 

 ing of a restless nature and finding our country entirely to 

 its taste it soon caught the national spirit of liberty, 

 and slipping through the garden palings became a 

 confirmed gypsy. So nowadays we often find it en- 

 camped by many a roadside, in old fields and along fence rows, 

 boon companion of the wildest. 



But why, you naturally ask, is it called blackberry lily? 

 September answers the riddle. Following hard upon the heels 

 of the flower comes a pear-shaped seed vessel encased in a 

 thin, greenish-white jacket, which the suns of summer slowly 

 change to brown. This, about the time of the autumnal 

 equinox, splits and falls away, leaving an oblong head of 

 shiny black seeds exposed to view, which so much resembles 

 a belated blackberry, ripe for the mouth, that one wonders 



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