236 



Idle Days in Patagonia. 



out stooping to thrust my nose into first one 

 blossom then another, and still another, until that 

 organ, like some industrious bee, is thickly powered 



Evening Primrose. 



with the golden dust. If, after an interval, I find 

 myself once more at the same spot, I repeat this 

 performance with as much care as if it was a kind 



