Summer in a Bog. 



The cornfield sloped away from the road and 

 looked flourishing enough save at one point: 

 there a strip seemed given over to weeds and 

 black morass, to wild grasses and moss. Great 

 clusters of ulmaria blushed pink and enticing 

 through the early summer, followed by queen- 

 of-the-meadow, tall meadow-rue, and flat-top 

 white aster, as the season waned. 



"If I owned that cornfield, I 'd drain it 

 better," said the Doctor, critically, as we drove 

 past it one afternoon. 



"It 's just like a strip of lovely flowered rib- 

 bon, ' ' said I. ' ' Here, stop and let me off. I 've 

 been intending to visit that bog for more than 

 a year, and I '11 do it now. It 's one of those 

 things which I neglect because they are so con- 

 veniently near. Drain that bog! Of course 

 they will!" 



Any other time the Doctor would have found 

 a dozen reasons why I should sit still and con- 

 tinue my ride, but my resolution came so sud- 

 denly that he had not time to formulate an 

 abjection. So I was down on the road in a 

 jiffy, trowel and portfolio in hand. 



