XIII: This Thornbush, My Thornbush 



I LIKE color, swaids of it." I remember many 

 a morning at Touisset when, as I toiled about 

 the roots of plants noticing only an increase in 

 girth or a new sturdiness of growth, my father 

 would stand behind me, uttering patiently these 

 mild words of censure. In those early days of 

 our garden only the hollyhocks contented him. 

 When in a stalwart array they began to unfold 

 their crumpled petals, salmon, maroon, blood red, 

 he would stand before them, watching the bees 

 timible over their dusty stamens with a look of 



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