236 Idle Days in Patagonia. 
out stooping to thrust my nose into first one 
blossom then another, and still another, until that 
organ, like some industrious bee, is thickly powered 
Evening Primrose. 
with the golden dust. If, after an interval, I find 
myself once more at the same spot, I repeat this 
performance with as much care as if it was a kind 
