as freely in the cornfields as the scar- 

 let poppy. The buds of this plant are 

 gathered by the old wife and made 

 into a decoction so bitter that it must 

 be a sufferer indeed who is willing 

 to gulp it down. The corn- marigold 

 was one of those plants which always 

 found a place in my lady's still-room, 

 where she compounded flavours for 

 cooking, perfumes and washes for the 

 toilet, and medicines for the family, 

 the receipts for which were handed 

 down from one generation to another. 

 In the Black Forest, Germany, every 

 family, however poor, strives to grow 

 a plant of white chrysanthemums, in 

 memory of that Christmas Eve so 

 long ago when the Christ Child came 

 to the cottage of a peasant asking for 

 shelter and food. The family was 

 very poor, the legend runs ; the father 

 worked hard to get enough food to 

 fill the many little mouths, and keep 

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