A MIDNIGHT RAMBLE. 



enough, homo sapiens, to note our form, our 

 anatomy, the color of our raiment, or hang a 

 Latin tag about our necks, or to check us 

 off upon your proud list and lay us on the 

 shelf in the musty hortus siccus of your self- 

 complacency. No; leave us to our pleasant 

 dreams, omnivorous mammal, get thee to the 

 hay-mow ; there is thy garden, there thou wilt 

 find thy sympathetic friends and thy greet- 

 ing." Such was the burden of the silent 

 slumberous murmur floating all about me in 

 the tangle of fragrant dreams dispelled in my 

 onward tread. But the eager pupil of my 

 inward eye was even now converted, and 

 having wet my knees in the dews in 

 fitting propitiation of humility, I was 

 welcomed again, and opened a fresh 

 humble page in my botany. And 

 there was much to chronicle. In what- 

 ever direction I might look over the 

 broad meadow I found the same 

 strange complexion everywhere to the 

 limits of my vision, and what " a pleas- 

 ing land of drowsy -head it was!" 



"We are a' nodclin', nid-nid-noddin'," 



seemed the universal lullaby. What a 

 convocation of nightcaps and sleepy- 

 heads ! 



The clovers are indeed a drowsy 

 family; they keep regular hours, and 

 make a thorough business of their slum- 

 ber red clovers with their heads tucked 

 under their wings, as it were, the young 

 blossom clusters completely hooded beneath 

 the overlapping upper pair of leaves, and 



