Vices of Plants 115 
sponsibility, the shameless effrontery of the lazzaroni. Any 
squalid corner will do for a weed—a crevice in a stone, a 
cranny in a wall, while they flaunt themselves unblushingly 
in good soil. They are sun-loving brothers, running rampant 
if unchecked, yet thankful for the slightest foothold, willing 
to share even an inch of ground with any flower—their grat- 
itude lifts them above the vicious outcast. My feeling toward 
the weed is indifference rather than dislike, for I grow so 
many flowers in a limited space, that the weed has but small 
chance. Sorrel is the most persistent mendicant, yet it is 
never defiant; then I have an occasional plantain, here and 
there an isolated grass stalk, and perhaps a morsel of chick- 
weed and smartweed, and occasionally a sporadic case of 
purslane. While they respect the flower beds, they do hold 
mass-meetings in my walks, and every representative becomes 
a walking delegate, and they march in processions ten abreast 
until Adam steps in to quell the riot. 
I ought to have a very kindly spirit toward weeds since they 
have given me many a happy hour, for weeding is my pleasant 
excuse to linger in the garden. I have even a mild sense of 
wrong when I root out here and there plants, commonly called 
weeds, simply because they bear no beautiful blossom, and I 
speedily pass from this unpleasant task to the removing of 
withered leaves or seed vessels from my plants, cutting back 
those that have bloomed, to make room for others waiting 
their chance to occupy the middle of the stage; then I turn to 
one needing a stake, or another that is worthy of being pulled 
forward into prominence, and I arrange and rearrange them 
as one does cut flowers. I linger long and lovingly over this 
grooming process, much as the fond mother detains impatient 
little Mary to pat and caress her bow of ribbon after it is once 
tied. A touch here, a removal there, another weed destroyed, 
a moment of leisure in which I pause to catch the glory of 
