SMALL. TORTOISESHELL 



ON CREEPING THISTLE 



DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



world of bees, while to and fro in rapid flight with 

 constant sharp turns fly small tortoise- 

 shell butterflies, unable, seemingly, to 

 decide whether the musky scented 

 blooms are preferable to the heaps 

 of stones on which they bask and 

 w r ave their gorgeous wings. 



Just a piece of waste land, 

 neglected and unnoticed except 

 to be condemned, o'erspread with 

 weeds only fit to burn for weeds, 

 rank weeds they are, yet handsome 

 weeds, built with beauty, replete with 

 a finished perfection of structure, 

 graced with a charm of form and 

 colouring that artists try to copy, and 

 fitted with a completeness for their 

 own needs and protection in life 

 passing our understanding; just mar- 

 vels of design, yet 'wretched weeds' 

 we call them! 



Thus have we formed the habit of drawing 

 our arbitrary lines, of placing in water-tight 

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