A MIDNIGHT RAMBLE. 15 
enough, Zomo sapiens, to note our form, our 
anatomy, the color of our raiment, or hang a 
Latin tag about our necks, or to check us 
off upon your proud list and lay us on the 
shelf in the musty Zortus scccus of your self- 
complacency. No; leave us to our pleasant 
dreams, omnivorous mammal, get thee to the 
hay-mow; there is thy garden, there thou wilt 
find thy sympathetic friends and thy greet- 
ing.” Such was the burden of the silent 
slumberous murmur floating all about me in 
the tangle of fragrant dreams dispelled in my 
onward tread. But the eager pupil of my 
inward eye was even now converted, and 
having wet my knees in the dews in 
fitting propitiation of humility, I was 
welcomed again, and opened a fresh 
humble page in my botany. And 
there was much to chronicle. In what- 
ever direction I might look over the 
broad meadow I found the same 
strange complexion everywhere to the 
limits of my vision, and what “a pleas- 
ing land of drowsy-head it was!” 
xy” 
“We are a’ noddin’, nid-nid-noddin’, 
seemed the universal lullaby. What a 
convocation of nightcaps and sleepy- 
heads! 
The clovers are indeed a drowsy 
family; they keep regular hours, and 
make a thorough business of their slum- 
ber — red clovers with ‘their heads tucked 
under their wings, as it were, the young 
blossom clusters completely hooded beneath 
the overlapping upper pair of leaves, and 
