8o THE JOY OF GARDENS 



uality so marked that the garden weeder does not mis- 

 take them for waifs and strays when weeds are making 

 a strong fight for possession. The infant poppy pushes 

 a quaint little rosette of pale green leaves to the surface, 

 the field poppy showing smooth texture and the Oriental 

 one roughly furred. And as the warm rains fall they 

 hold fast to this personal trait, standing alone in a blue- 

 white among the somber foliage of foxgloves, cam- 

 panulas, queens of the meadow, Canterbury bells, and 

 larkspur. 



All are ready for bloom at the midday of June, but 

 nature seems aware it is the triumph of the Oriental 

 poppy, and the unfurling buds of campanulas show dull 

 blues, the foxgloves old rose and white, and other per- 

 ennials join with pale yellows, bronze, and varied greens, 

 as if agreed on harmony to create the scheme of richest 

 cashmere color. 



Then there dawns a rare day when the Oriental pop- 

 pies spread their blood-red petals of crepy delicacy, 

 opening wide their dusky purple hearts, and exhaling 

 heavy, slumber-compelling odors, breathing the spell of 

 the enchantment of summer. It is a triumph among 

 nature's surprises. 



The little field poppies, whose torches gleam in the 

 yellow harvest fields and keep aflame all summer, are the 

 broomstick witches of the wayside. There are dull days 

 when I feel that it would pay "to go ten thousand 



