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XVIII. 



WILD THYME. 



Except only Scotch heather — that artistic sav- 

 ing grace in our cold grey Northern hills — I 

 know no English plant which produces such 

 brilliant masses of warm colour on a large scale 

 as the little creeping blossoms of the wild 

 thyme. Here on the hillside, between the 

 jagged and jutting edges of rock, the rich 

 black peaty soil is thickly overgrown with 

 tangled patches of its purple flowers ; and 

 the sweet scent and the hum of bees mingle 

 in one's mind with that indefinite literary 

 charm derived from faint suggestions of Puck 

 and Oberon to make this mellow autumn 

 afternoon seem for a moment like a little bit 



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