THE GARDEN AND THE WILDS 43 



Frequently I come upon a curious patch of 

 confusion, where a few cultivated plants are 

 struggling and fairly well holding their own, amid 

 a promiscuous crowd of such pushing plebeians as 

 groundsel, chickweed, and purple dead nettle. A 

 ridge, not more than a foot high, enclosing a space, 

 is all that tells of the site of some peasant's cottage, 

 pulled down, not too soon, probably, for the well- 

 being of its inmates. 



In one of my walks I saw a daffodil growing on 

 the banks of a rill. The leaves were long and 

 green, the flowers large, yellow, and single. The 

 whole plant was so healthy and happy-looking 

 that I thought I had never seen a daffodil before. 

 Plainly it was better satisfied with its fresh sur- 

 rounding, than if it had been in some dry and 

 dusty enclosure. No wonder, seeing that it is 

 naturally a lover of such moist places. 



The scene was shut in from the world on every 

 side by a tree-crested ridge. Few came by in a 

 day. The nearest cottage was a long field's- 

 breadth away. I looked for some trace of recent 

 planting. The turf was firm, as though long 

 undisturbed. 



For miles around there was no wild daffodil 

 besides. I question if the county, had it been 



