sB MY DEVON YEAR 



gladly and knew her for the green hellebore, a Spring 

 blossom not common in the region where I chanced 

 on her. Her sole indigenous relation— the fetid 

 hellebore — has a purple-fringed calyx, and both are 

 cousins german of that important plant whose roots 

 are a drug of might, and whose flowers brighten 

 winter gardens with their pale rosy-green or pure 

 white. After this discovery I began to think upon 

 the green flowers of Spring, and, withdrawing my 

 eyes from wider survey of earth, set about immediate 

 scrutiny of those things at hand. A skilled botanist 

 has since pointed out to me that the abundance of 

 early flowers whose hues shall be found to lie 

 between green and golden green, and whose presence 

 is therefore inconspicuous in the obtrusive or se- 

 cluded homes of their choice, arises from the fact 

 that the insect world is not yet awake, and that 

 Nature has no great need of flaming colour-notes to 

 lure bee, butterfly, and the rest to their unconscious 

 duties of pollen carrying. Now the familiar dog's 

 mercury met my eye everywhere, and no hint of inner 

 evil appeared in its upright habit, orderly foliage, and 

 frank green blossoms of three petals ; yet it hides 

 rank poison under its blunt and honest face. Peren- 

 nial mercury indeed flourishes just now, and the apple- 

 green spathes of the wild arum peep, pixy-like, from 

 every dene and dingle, every hedgerow and covert- 

 edge. 



The green flowers possess and even flaunt an 

 element of the weird to my thinking, for their 



