ESCAPED FROM GARDENS 187 



adorned with unmatchable art in foliage and coloring, is 

 the cluster of purple flowerets. Time was when the bot- 

 anists gave recognition of this perfection, and all the 

 flower tribes of composite were united under the name 

 "Thistle family." But sentiment has vanished, and now 

 we tack nomenclature to science. 



Thistle bloom gowned in Tyrian purple, with the rare 

 perfume from Araby and nectar cells inviting the bees, 

 gossamer-winged gnats, and butterflies, is the center of 

 rustic festivities on a midsummer day. When the gay 

 whirl of pleasure has spent its brief hour, the flowerets 

 sleep for a night and wake with the next sunny dawn to 

 shake out a mane of powdered locks and set sail a million 

 winged arrows pointed for mischief. 



Then merrily soar the Thistledowns to plant the fields 

 for the coming summer. The weed killer abroad with 

 bonfire and hoe looks after them as if they were a flight 

 of mischief-loving sprites bent on adventure. 



"Trifles light as air," he muses. "When the bread- 

 makers and Beauty's children have gone to rest, these re- 

 main the trifles light as air. My Lady Thistle, I love 

 you, just for your inconsequence. The world is peopled 

 with sorrow makers, with hard workers and tramps and 

 idlers. Nature gives you but one short year, a wondrous 

 beauty, and a prickly sheath to keep lovers at a distance. 

 For all the cruelty of circumstance, you seem to make the 

 best of things. Yours is the light heart and the joy. 



