CHAPTER XI— IN BETWEEN 



CHOOSING YOUR OWN WEEDS 

 O one in his senses would ever choose any 



weed," some one says. That depends, is 



the answer; it depends on what is a weed, 

 in the first place, and on what kind of a weed it is, 

 once a plant has been so stigmatized. The sim- 

 plest definition of the word weed is "a plant out of 

 place," and the unhuman scientist may be per- 

 fectly satisfied with that disposition of the lovely 

 mountain laurel or the aristocratic rhododen- 

 dron, when great specimens of either stand in the 

 way of a road or a building. 



He would agree with a really delightful friend 

 of mine whose knowledge of plants is limited to 

 three: "fern," "grass" and hydrangea. Of the 

 three, hydrangea (meaning the hydrangea "p. g." I 

 have frequently mentioned) is in his view the most 

 important and valuable, and "grass" of next 

 desirability, "fern" being endurable under certain 

 conditions in which "grass" cannot be made to 

 grow. All else that grows, of less stature than 

 trees, is either "weeds" or "brush," and to be as 



(ITS) 



