The Rescue of an Old Place 



lected spaces, of trees on the hill smoth- 

 ered by grass, of rose-bugs unslain, and 

 caterpillars left at large ; of a struggle for 

 general effect, rather than a realization of 

 neatness in detail, all of which is most 

 reprehensible and melancholy. We look 

 at our neighbors' neat gardens with re- 

 morse and envy, and can only console 

 ourselves by reflecting that when they are 

 gone the weeds will have their way, but 

 that in our struggle with nature in the end 

 the trees will win, and trample the weeds 

 under their mighty feet, and rear their 

 stately heads proudly, while the beets and 

 carrots of a future generation are still 

 struggling with their yearly foes. 



In a recent visit to the shores of the 

 Merrimac, I have seen hills carpeted with 

 the fallen leaves of haughty Pines that 

 have numbered some centuries of growth, 

 and I can smile at the flaunting Daisies 

 of the hill, which overtop our baby ever- 

 greens, and threaten to exterminate them. 

 Your days are numbered, O weeds ! Wave 

 now and dance in the sunshine while you 

 may, for the first nails are being driven in 

 your coffins. Little you reck that the 

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