A BUNCH OF HERBS 



sings Whittier. In Europe our goldenrod is culti- 

 vated in the flower gardens, as well it may be. The 

 native species is found mainly in woods, and is much 

 less showy than ours. 



Our milkweed is tenacious of life ; its roots lie 

 deep, as if to get away from the plow, but it seldom 

 infests cultivated crops. Then its stalk is so full 

 of milk and its pod so full of silk that one cannot 

 but ascribe good intentions to it, if it does some- 

 times overrun the meadow. 



"In dusty pods the milkweed 

 Its hidden silk has spun," 



sings "H. H." in her "September." 



Of our ragweed not much can be set down that 

 is complimentary, except that its name in the bot- 

 any is Ambrosia, food of the gods. It must be the 

 food of the gods if anything, for, so far as I have 

 observed, nothing terrestrial eats it, not even billy- 

 goats. (Yet a correspondent writes me that in 

 Kentucky the cattle eat it when hard-pressed, and 

 that a certain old farmer there, one season when 

 the hay crop failed, cut and harvested tons of it for 

 his stock in winter. It is said that the milk and 

 butter made from such hay are not at all suggestive 

 of the traditional Ambrosia!) It is the bane of 

 asthmatic patients, but the gardener makes short 

 work of it. It is about the only one of our weeds that 

 follows the plow and the harrow, and, except that 

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