OUR COUNTRY HOME 



Before a mass of rich purple asters hanging over the shore path, 

 some country women stopped in admiration one morning, until one 

 exclaimed, " Why, they 're nothin' but wild flowers ! " The rest 

 followed her retreating footsteps in shamed dismay. What have 

 the wild flowers done to deserve such scornful treatment ? 



When I pass an unpainted little house by the wayside with its 

 bed of faded dahlias and purplish phlox, I long to go in and ask the 

 good woman if she sees the possibilities in those clusters of feathery 

 asters, and the decorative qualities in the yellow resin-weed on the 

 dusty highway, so near her garden gate. Why does she not culti- 

 vate the w r ild thorn-apple tree and the haw, both of which should 

 appeal to her housewifely instincts, as both fruits make such deli- 

 cious jelly! I wish she could see our golden-rod field, a waving 

 mass of sweetness in September, which the bees know well! The 

 high sumacs shelter it, and the pale asters, both white and mauve, 

 carry the exquisite color scheme on into the depths of the forest. 

 Tall evening primroses and mulleins lift their delicate flowers to the 

 lips of sphynx moths and butterflies, and everywhere the bramble 

 clambers, always beautiful from early Spring's green leaves and 

 crimson stems through flowers and unripe berries to perfected fruit. 



