The Azured Harebell 
delights to perch far up on inaccessible cliffs, where its 
lovely flowers nod nonchalantly down at the baffled city 
boarder, who would gather but cannot. 
It is frequent, too, throughout the British Isles and 
Europe, and in England is usually known as the hare¬ 
bell, but why it should be associated with the hare is 
an enigma which has proved so difficult of solution that 
some desperate etymologists claim that the spelling should 
be hairbell—a plausible theory in view of the delicate 
hairlike flower stalks. This pretty flower is one of those 
fairest which Cadwal promised should sweeten the sad 
grave of Imogen: 
“Thou shalt not lack 
The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose; nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins.” 
Unemployed philanthropists might find occupation dur¬ 
ing the season of flowers in rescuing unfortunate honey 
bees and bugs of less degree from the pitfalls of the milk¬ 
weed blossoms. If you will examine these flowers any 
sunny day you will be pretty sure to find them decorated 
with a miscellaneous assortment of struggling or dead 
insects, with their legs fast in the slits of the peculiar 
blossoms. The pollen of this common plant, instead 
of being a powder, as in the case of most plants, con¬ 
sists of sticky waxen masses hidden within the blossom. 
When a visiting insect thrusts a proboscis or leg into 
the opening of such a flower some of these masses stick 
to it, and the natural course is for the insect to fly off 
to another flower and fertilize this with the adhering 
