This Thornbush, My Thornbush 



made my first attempt. In a neighboring 

 meadow, I found the furry tufts of the rudbeckia 

 (ox-eyed Susan) which shorn by the scythe of 

 its first crop, was just ready for an autumn 

 blossoming. I waited for a rain. Then all unbe- 

 knownst I toiled, Ufting each plant with a thick 

 ball of earth. For several days their green con- 

 cealed them. Then little by little their calyxes 

 relaxed, vmtil one morning I looked out to see 

 their petals open to the sun, a flaunting glow of 

 orange. I had achieved success. At last we had 

 color, "swads of it." 



Our walks after this took on an added zest, 

 though we were now encumbered with a spade, 

 and though we were often forced to make return 

 trips to the scene of pillage. We were ambitious 

 in those days and had not yet known failure. 

 That came later when we tried to make our own 

 the ironweed with its deep purple, funereal almost 

 in its gloomy splendor. Our next attempt was 

 the cardinal flower, lifted only by sinking the 

 arms deep in muck. Hectic days followed that 

 act of bravado. Each morning as part of his 

 routine, my father would hurry forth with his own 



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