SEPTEMBEIR 43 



One of the fascinating things about following 

 flower lore or bird lore as a lifelong pastime, is 

 the delight of carrying childhood memories into 

 later years, when the burden and the heat of the 

 day are oppressive. Today even some of the com- 

 mon weeds here are rich in associations of boy- 

 ish hours in front-yard, back-yard, pasture, and 

 street-side. Here is ' ' sweet clover. ' ' We boys did 

 not add "white," for in our day and locality the 

 yellow was practicall}^ unknown or else neglected. 

 Nor did we ever call the plant "melilot," appro- 

 priate as that name might have been. How early 

 in our career its tall stems, its pungent scent, its 

 not indelicate racemes were familiar and beloved. 

 Here is mayweed — ''dog fennel" if you ^\ill, but 

 not with our approval — and a glimpse of its 

 sturdy plebeian form brings back strangely famil- 

 iar though dim sensations of summer evening- 

 drives along dusty country roads wdiere weeds 

 grew rank, the dickcissel sang from almost every 

 fence and wdre, showing the yellow of his breast 

 to match the yellow disks of mayweed. Here are 

 the green spikes of common plantain. The ap- 

 pearance even of the stamens — anthers and stalks 

 — was vividly impressed on boyish memory. The 

 leaves had their own functions in the world of 

 boyish play. The stout ribs were always wonder- 

 ful, often separated from the blade that their iden- 

 tity might be more clearly defined. The fruited 



