180 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



flavorless mullein, and the wiry thistle 

 of upland country pastures, where the 

 grass is always gray, as if the world were 

 already weary and sick of life. The 

 awkward, uncouth wickedness of remote 

 country-places, where culture has died 

 out after the first crop, is about as dis 

 agreeable as the ranker and richer vice 

 of city life, forced by artificial heat and 

 the juices of an overfed civilization. 

 There is 110 doubt, that, on the whole, 

 the rich soil is the best : the fruit of it 

 has body and flavor. To what affluence 

 does a woman (to take an instance, thank 

 Heaven, which is common) grow, with 

 favoring circumstances, under the stim 

 ulus of the richest social and intellec 

 tual influences ! I am aware that there 

 has been a good deal said in poetry 

 about the fringed gentian and the hare 

 bell of rocky districts and waysides, and 

 I know that it is possible for maidens to 



