Vices of Plants 115 



sponsibility, the shameless effrontery of the lazzaroni. Any 

 squalid corner will do for a weed a crevice in a stone, a 

 cranny in a wall, while they flaunt themselves unblushingly 

 in good soil. They are sun-loving brothers, running rampant 

 if unchecked, yet thankful for the slightest foothold, willing 

 to share even an inch of ground with any flower their grat- 

 itude lifts them above the vicious outcast. My feeling toward 

 the weed is indifference rather than dislike, for I grow so 

 many flowers in a limited space, that the weed has but small 

 chance. Sorrel is the most persistent mendicant, yet it is 

 never defiant; then I have an occasional plantain, here and 

 there an isolated grass stalk, and perhaps a morsel of chick- 

 weed and smartweed, and occasionally a sporadic case of 

 purslane. While they respect the flower beds, they do hold 

 mass-meetings in my walks, and every representative becomes 

 a walking delegate, and they march in processions ten abreast 

 until Adam steps in to quell the riot. 



I ought to have a very kindly spirit toward weeds since they 

 have given me many a happy hour, for weeding is my pleasant 

 excuse to linger in the garden. I have even a mild sense of 

 wrong when I root out here and there plants, commonly called 

 weeds, simply because they bear no beautiful blossom, and I 

 speedily pass from this unpleasant task to the removing of 

 withered leaves or seed vessels from my plants, cutting back 

 those that have bloomed, to make room for others waiting 

 their chance to occupy the middle of the stage; then I turn to 

 one needing a stake, or another that is worthy of being pulled 

 forward into prominence, and I arrange and rearrange them 

 as one does cut flowers. I linger long anc( lovingly over this 

 grooming process, much as the fond mother detains impatient 

 little Mary to pat and caress her bow of ribbon after it is once 

 tied. A touch here, a removal there, another weed destroyed, 

 a moment of leisure in which I pause to catch the glory of 



