NOVEMBER'S WILD FLOWER 229 



feet first began to bloom? It must indeed be a cold 

 day when 



"the chickweed's eye is closed." 



You are always sure of it. Even in midwinter, if you 

 know its haunt in some sunny nook, you may dig away 

 the snow, and pick its white, starry blossoms, larger and 

 fuller now than those of summer. I recall a beautiful 

 episode from one of my winter walks long ago, in which 

 the lowly chickweed won my gratitude. I was skirt- 

 ing the borders of a swamp where every hollow between 

 mound and tussock was roofed with thin, glassy ice left 

 high and dry by the receding of the water beneath, and 

 had approached within a few feet of the remnants of an 

 old farm hot -bed, which stood at the foot of a steep 

 southern slope. Its foundation was rimmed with the 

 mimic glass as though in consolation, and, in further 

 sympathy, at one portion the clear crystal roof disclosed 

 a lush growth of the chickweed beneath, its starry 

 blossoms rivalling the surrounding snow in whiteness. 

 A mimic conservatory no, not a mimic, rather say the 

 model, the "cold-frame" which nursed its winter blos- 

 soms eons before the modern infringement of the florist 

 was conceived of, or the florist himself an entity. 





