IN THE OPEN 



hearing. The deaf could hear this. And were the 

 blind to listen to the crickets' reverie, they might 

 see these fields. 



Is there anywhere a more audacious beauty than 

 the pokeweed in autumn? It flaunts itself in your 

 face one of the respectable bourgeoisie of weeds, 

 now suddenly arrayed in this regal fashion and 

 mocking you with its splendid beauty. A weed! 

 Why are not roses weeds as they stand all forlorn 

 before this voluptuous child of the people? Out 

 of the plebeian rabble there comes here and there 

 such a superb creature as this. 



Consider the milkweeds, a family of beauties. 

 Something luxuriant and sensuous there is in their 

 ample proportions. They have an excessive health, 

 an exuberance of vitality; a full-blooded race, if 

 you so much as break a leaf from one it bleeds 

 like a wounded creature. From the mud, the 

 swamp-milkweed has derived some rich hue, while 

 the butterfly-weed in the pasture has caught the 

 very sunshine itself and become a living flame. 

 The great pod of the milkweed is the luxuriant 

 fruit of this fine plant, as tropical in appearance 

 as any mango or cocoa bean. When it is ripe, in 

 place of a luscious flavor, it discloses a mass of 

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