the roads, or else these are the patches that have no 

 deepness of earth, where the seed of the winds' sow- 

 ing can get no hold, for I have had to sow these my- 

 self. As I go up and down I carry a pocketful of 

 sweet clover seed, melilotus, and over every waste 

 and sandy place I scatter a few of the tiny seeds, 

 when, lo ! not two blades of grass where one grew be- 

 fore, but a patch of tall white flowers, breathing the 

 sweetness of heaven into all the air, and humming in 

 the July sun with the joyous sound of my honey bees. 

 All this, and for season after season, where nothing 

 grew before ! 



Along with melilotus in the gravelly cuts and burnt 

 woodlands grows the fireweed, a tall showy annual 

 that waves its pink, plumed head throughout July. 

 Farther north and west, this striking flower, like the 

 melilotus, yields a heavy flow of delicious honey, but 

 it does not attract the bees in this locality. Neither 

 do my bees get any nectar from the fat little indigo- 

 bush that takes possession of the unfarmed, sandy 

 fields in July, though the wild bumblebees are busy 

 upon it as long as it remains in bloom. 



But this is not the native land of the honey bee, and 

 it is sheer luck that the white clover, the basswood, 



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