79 



Daphne has only flower-children. If she 

 loves passing well her shrubs and vines, 

 lowlier blossoms are her passion. And 

 surely she was born for anarchy. Do but 

 look at this breadth of dark earth, so light 

 and crumbly to the tread. Again it is high 

 summer. Things for use beans, beets, 

 potatoes, squash, cucumbers straggling, 

 crowding over the face of it, their matted 

 green everywhere beflecked with big, fringy 

 poppies, royal red, cream -white, or vivid 

 pink. In between, bluets peer pertly, prince- 

 feather uplifts its stately stalk, gay snap- 

 dragon flings wide its painted throat. At 

 one edge bachelor's-button fights hard with 

 vigorous pepper -plants. A huge, branchy 

 sun -flower stands tall above the battle. 

 Over against, palma-christi spreads its feath- 

 ery fans higher than your head, its red stalk 

 overrun with green cypress-vine. 



All sprang where they stand from self- 

 sown seed. Daphne could no more uproot 

 them than she could do murder. Spade, 

 hoe, and rake have turned aside from them, 

 or wrought only that they might be free of 

 hindering weeds. See, too, these clumps 

 of heart's-ease, so velvet-dark and golden- 

 eyed, standing in shade of green asparagus 

 plumes. The big, silvery onions swell up 



