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a weedy wilderness. This was very plain when I 

 took the trouble to scan my surroundings a little 

 more closely. There were pale blue flowers in 

 great abundance, the Houstonia of the botanists, 

 and pale spring beauties, pink and white ; and just 

 beyond, nodding in the light breeze, dog-toothed 

 violets, a lily in fact, and over the hedge there is a 

 ruddy glow that I knew to be phlox. Here we have 

 half the colors of the rainbow, and yet talk glibly 

 of the green meadows, as if the red rose and white 

 lily were myths. But what of the growths between 

 the green stain upon the hickory's bark, the flow- 

 ers, and a perfect tree ? I do not know how many 

 distinct forms of plant-life there are in the world; it 

 is immaterial. I do know that there is a gratify- 

 ing variety in this essentially commonplace corner 

 of a monotonous region; a variety that gives us 

 blossoms, green leaves, and queer growths for nine 

 months of the year, and provides us in midwinter 

 with a series of plant skeletons that are as delicate, 

 intricate, symmetrical, and beautiful as the orchids, 

 of which strange plants, one, a huge purple affair, 

 is now in bloom in the little woods near by. If a 

 single tree and its surroundings become tiresome, 

 which I do not admit, what of the little woods just 

 mentioned ? Every tree in it is a grandchild. That 

 is, it is a third growth, or the second since the pri- 

 meval forest was felled by the first white settlers of 

 this region. An over-practical folk, they had no 

 ideas beyond dollars, and left no trace of the origi- 

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