Winter Fields 
wind these hairy tufts spread out and bear the seeds as on 
wings long distances away from the place of their birth; 
so does the milkweed colonize the earth. It has an aristo¬ 
cratic cousin which is found occasionally in thickets and 
is distinguished by its climbing habit. A clump of bram¬ 
bles whereon this slender vine has clambered is dotted 
jvhite, these midwinter days, with the opening pods, out 
of which the silken-haired seeds are only now escaping. 
These seed vessels of the climbing milkweed, which are 
covered with short spines, are very picturesque, being 
smaller and more delicate than those of the plebeian milk¬ 
weed of the roadside. Before the beating of the elements 
has bleached them they are tinted in beautiful tones of 
green, brown and yellow, reminding one of shells from 
some tropic sea. 
The gray monotone of winter fields is often exquisitely 
relieved by growths of Indian grass, which delights in 
sandy, sterile stretches of ground throughout our vicinity. 
There are several species of it, but in winter all look 
practically alike—tall, rank grasses, dried and rustling, 
but retaining in culm and leaf the warm, reddish yellow 
of ripened wheat. On a sunny January day as they bend 
before the rush of the north wind, they fairly bewilder the 
eye with their resemblance to a waiting harvest touched 
by the summer breeze. One wonders if the birds hunting 
for winter provender are ever deceived by the sight in the 
hope of a feast of grain. Like the hungry beggar of Bag¬ 
dad, however, who dined with the Barmecide in the Ara¬ 
bian Nights, one finds here only a feast for the imagina¬ 
tion, for the seeds that came with the autumn are long since 
scattered abroad. 
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