THE COMEDY OF THE GARDEN 141 
fully lined with horsehair, like the chipping spar- 
rows. It is made of sticks plastered together with 
mud. How clever are the birds! The robins 
knew undoubtedly that they could get plenty of 
twigs and earth about here to construct their nest, 
while the chippies perhaps spied out our old horse, 
and noticed where the hairs had dropped from his 
tail. 
So far, I have written nothing about one striking 
bit of beauty near the triangle. This is our 
morning-glory vine. Joseph sowed Its seeds In 
May, although he had formerly crossed off all an- 
nual vines from his list; and since then we have 
been delighted with the rapidity of its growth. The 
flowers that are unfolding show us many colours 
from white to crimson, and then on to purple. The 
sight of morning-glories is not new to me, yet I 
have never before looked at them closely enough 
to see their full beauty. In shape they are quite 
perfect, and of a texture so fine as to be almost 
transparent. I am particularly pleased that we 
have these vines. 
Yet on seeing them Miss Wiseman exclaimed: 
“Beware of those morning-glories.’* 
Joseph and I wondered what she could mean. 
“They are weeds,” Miss Wiseman explained. 
“Weeds?” Little Joseph and I said together. 
“They are indeed,” Miss Wiseman continued, 
“and weeds of such determined growth that It Is 
sometimes difficult to get rid of them. I have 
