MOTHS OF THE LIMBERLOST 



These were the most beautiful anywhere in my locality. 

 The hum of busy life was incessant. From the top twig 

 of the giant sycamore in Rainbow Bottom, the father 

 of the cardinal flock hourly challenged all creation to 

 contest his right to one particular sumac. The cardinals 

 were the attraction there; across the fence where the hill 

 sloped the length of the pasture to the lane, lures were 

 many and imperative. Despite a few large trees, com- 

 pelling right to life by their majesty, that hillside was 

 open pasture, where the sunshine streamed all day long. 

 Wild roses clambered over stumps of fallen monarchs, 

 and scrub oak sheltered resting sheep. As it swept to 

 the crest, the hillside was thickly dotted with mullein, 

 its pale yellow-green leaves spreading over the grass, and 

 its spiral of canary coloured bloom stifily upstanding. 

 There were thistles, the big, rank, richly growing kind, 

 that browsing cattle and sheep circled widely. 



Very beautiful were these frosted thistles, with their 

 large, widespreading base leaves, each spine needle- 

 tipped, their uplifted heads of delicate purple bloom, 

 and their floating globes of silken down, with a seed in 

 their hearts. No wonder artists have painted them, 

 decorators conventionalized them; even potters could 

 not pass by their artistic merit, for I remembered that in 

 a china closet at home there were Belleek cups moulded 

 in the shape of a thistle head. 



Experience had taught me how the birds appreciate 



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