XIV 



TEASEL HOLLOW 



TEASEL HOLLOW lies in the farther corner of my 

 meadow, just at the margin of the woods. The tiny 

 brooklet comes slipping out of the shadows here 

 and feels its way down the slope to the main stream. 



The teasel demands attention and gets it, from 

 bee and butterfly, from bobolink and red-winged 

 blackbird, from wanderers human and bovine. In 

 summer and winter it captivates me. The self- 

 respecting cow, after testing it once, passes it with 

 a disdainful switch of her tail ; but I sit down near 

 by, regardless of the hot sunshine, and watch the 

 yellow-banded bumblebees roll in and out of its 

 honey-laden flowers. Over yonder a bobolink sways 

 back and forth, the stiff teasel, graceful for once 

 in its life, keeping time to the melting music. 



Even the teasel, a coarse, ungraceful, though 

 hearty and vigorous plant, has its zenith, a time 

 when life reaches its highest point and justifies itself. 

 The teasel's glory comes with the bees and the 

 bobolink, and the crown of purple which it wears. 

 If you look curiously at the heads on a single plant 

 you will see that they are not all alike. At the very 

 top of the central stalk is the head which was the 

 first to wear the purple. Its crown has become a 

 mere tuft at the very top and just below the head 

 a few straggling petals show like the wisps of 



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