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78 



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Zbe fragrant IRote Booft 



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"To halt at the chattering brook in the tall green fern at the 



brink -:;^\ \ // / y ^..i,-^ V, \ 



Where the hafebell grows, arid the gorse and the foxgloves 

 purple and white." 



But we cannot cease to think of flowers even while we 

 take our lazy minute on the grass. How glibly we gabble 

 their names without perhaps always stopping to think if they °*\ \ 

 link us with other times and other peoples. Some change \ 

 their names, and some prefer to float along forever with the 

 brook, bearing a loved or feared appellation of old. Pick 

 yonder tall and commanding yarrow. You are stately, 

 Yarrow, but I should hardly think of Iliad days and you X I 

 together. Why then do you call yourself Achillea, pre- ^ 

 sumptuous plant, and what had you to do with Achilles? 

 What was your name, bold one, before the scourge of Hector 

 stumbled over you? And did Achilles, tender as well as 

 strong, reallj'- steep your juices to cure grievously stricken 

 Telephus, son of Heracles? Small hope we shall ever know, 

 but "so the legend runneth, so the old men tell," and 

 yarrow is Achillea to this day, claiming the deed of healing 

 and holding high head topping many another more attrac- 

 tive wayside flower. y^ \ \ y/ 



Crowding even yarrow for space and prominence, pushing 

 small and weak things into the dusty road's edge, I see 

 another imperious plant that claims by nature and lineage 

 the right to lord it over its fellows. Beautiful, and with such 

 a sweet and amiable temper, "Touch and I pierce, " says the 



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