sessors of wild flowers. Money alone never seems 

 to make a thing ours. The clothes we buy do not 

 wholly become ours until we have worn them often 

 and they have assumed the wrinkles indicative of our 

 habits of work and rest. 



The plants and seed we purchase do not seem ours 

 until we have made them so by our loving service 

 and care. I do not love flowers in the abstract; I 

 love only those flowers which I have guacded and 

 brought to fulfilment. Roses displayed in a shop 

 window seldom interest me beyond a passing glance, 

 for they are not my roses — I have contributed noth- 

 ing to their life. 



It is particularly because we do not exchange coin 

 for the wild flowers that they hold such a peculiar 

 significance. It is as though Nature held them out 

 in her arms, a gift to all who seek her lovingly. 



So when I pass near my wild things there is ever 

 a reminiscence connected with them, such as the day 

 we tramped miles through a great hemlock forest, un- 

 devastated by axe or fire, following along an erratic 

 little brook until it opened out into a pool where 

 muskrats made their home, guarded by gnarled old 

 willows. Here, spread over a sweet, wide meadow^ 

 were thousands of wild irises making the ground as 



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