180 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



of Bedlam. Time, we may say, has estab- 

 lished our innocence. If a recent comer 

 expresses concern as we go past, some older 

 resident reassures him. "They are harm- 

 less," he says. " There used to be three of 

 them. They pull weeds, as you see ; the 

 older one has his hands full of them now. 

 Yes, they are branches of thorn bushes. 

 They always carry opera glasses, too. We 

 used to think they were looking for land to 



buy. Old , up on the hill in Lisbon, 



tried to sell them his farm at a fancy figure, 

 but they did n't bite. I reckon they know 

 a thing or two, for all their queer ways. 

 One of 'em knows how to write, anyhow; 

 he is always taking out pencil and paper. 

 There ! you see how he does. He sets down 

 a word or two, and away he goes again." 



It is all true. We looked at plants, and 

 sometimes gathered them. The botanist 

 had thorn bushes on his mind, the genus 

 Cratcegus being a hard one, and, as I 

 judged, newly under revision. I professed 

 no knowledge upon so recondite a subject, 

 but was proud to serve the cause of science 

 by pointing out a bush here and there. One 



