166 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



I am inclined to think that the substratum 

 is the same, and that the only choice in this 

 world is what kind of weeds you will have. 

 I am not much attracted by the gaunt, 

 flavorless mullein and the wiry thistle of 

 upland country pastures, where the grass is 

 always gray, as if the world were already 

 weary and sick of life. The awkward, un- 

 couth wickedness of remote country-places, 

 where culture has died out after the first 

 crop, is about as disagreeable as the ranker 

 and richer vice of city life, forced by artifi- 

 cial heat and the juices of an overfed civ- 

 ilization. There is no doubt that, on the 

 whole, the rich soil is the best : the fruit of 

 it has body and flavor. To what affluence 

 does a woman (to take an instance, thank 

 Heaven, which is common) grow, with favor- 

 ing circumstances, under the stimulus of the 

 richest social and intellectual influences ! I 

 am aware that there has been a good deal 

 said in poetry about the fringed gentian and 

 the harebell of rocky districts and waysides, 

 and I know that it is possible for maideng 



