Thistledown. 205 
These, I think, never look so lovely as when rising 
from the green sward ; the daffodils grow, too, in the 
orchard. Woodbine is everywhere—climbing over 
the garden seat under the sycamore tree, whose leaves 
are spotted sometimes with tiny reddish dots, the 
honey-dew. 
Just outside the rick-yard, where the grass of the 
meadow has not been mown but fed by cattle, grow 
the tall buttercups, rising to the knee. The children 
use the long hollow stems as tubes wherewith to suck 
up the warm new milk through its crown of thick 
froth, from the oaken milking-pail. There is a fable 
that the buttercups make the butter yellow when they 
come—but the cows never eat them, being so bitter ; 
they eat all round close up to the very stems, but 
leave them standing scrupulously. The children, too, 
make similar pipes of straw to suck up the new cider 
fresh from the cider-mill, as it stands in the tubs 
directly after the grinding. Under the shady trees of 
the orchard the hare’s parsley flourishes, and immedi- 
ately without the orchard edge, on the ‘ shore’ of the 
ditch, grow thick bunches of the beautiful blue crane’s- 
bill, or wild geranium, which ought to be a garden 
flower and not left to the chance mercy of the scythe. 
There, too, the herb Robert hides, and its foliage, 
turning colour, lies like crimson lace on the bank. 
Even the tall thistles of the ditch have their beauty 
—the flower has a delicate tint, varying with the 
species from mauve to purple ; the humble-bee visits 
