i-'M 



II ^ 



XII. 



A BED OF NETTLES, 



Reaching my hand into the hedgerow to pick 

 a long, lithe, blossoming spray of black 

 bryony — here it is, with its graceful climbing 

 stem, its glossy heart-shaped leaves, and its 

 pretty, greenish lily flowers — I have stung 

 myself rather badly against the nettles that 

 grow rank and tall from the rich mud in the 

 ditch below. Nothing soothes a nettle-sting 

 like philosophy and dock-leaf ; so I shall rub 

 a little of the leaf on my hand, and then sit 

 awhile on the Hole Farm gate here to philo- 

 sophise about nettles and things generally, as 

 is my humble wont. There is a great deal 

 more in nettles, I believe, than most people 



I 



