112 A RAMBLE TO BRANDY COVE. 



a rather uncommon and fine flower, the bastard 

 balm. 



How much it adds to the pleasure of a walk to 

 have something to search for, no matter whether it 

 be insects or flowers, beetles or bee-orchises ! the 

 having an object of desire, the constant hope of find- 

 ing a prize, you know not what ; and now and then 

 the delight at finding some unexpected, unthought of, 

 but not unwished for treasure ; greatly enhance the 

 gratification, and associate indelibly agreeable places 

 with agreeable emotions. Forgive me if I am tedi- 

 ously garrulous, but I have always loved to cherish 

 such associations. I can look back for years, and say 

 with complacent memory, " It was in such a lane, on 

 such a day, in company with such and such beloved 

 companions, that I first found this or that rare insect; 

 it was under such and such circumstances, impressed 

 upon my recollection with a vividness that can never 

 be effaced, that I heard for the first time the voice of 

 a particular bird." 



By the way, about that woodrush, a reminiscence 

 comes over me, when I see it, more amusing than 

 flattering. The fine, rather imposing appearance of 

 its broad leaves, as they come up in hollow tufts, en- 

 ables " 'cute fellows/' in the guise of rustics (more 

 'cute than conscientious), to palm off roots to garden- 

 ing Londoners, as those of fine bulbous flowers. I 

 have seen the plant so often in suburban gardens and 

 areas, cherished up from month to month, and even 

 from year to year, until patience becomes exhausted, 



