A Window in Arcady 
September 4.—These early September days are the 
time of the tobacco harvest in our State, and great leaved 
plants spreading to catch the dews of heaven in' the morn¬ 
ing are at night dejectedly swinging by the heels from 
wooden racks in rows of faded green. Occasionally one 
sees in the fields a plant that has been allowed to flower, 
and it is a stately sight—five or siz feet in height, crowned 
with its loose panicle of funnel-shaped rosy blossoms. It 
is said that when the herb was introduced into Spain three 
and a half centuries ago it was at first cultivated for orna¬ 
ment, and, indeed, any garden would be graced by the 
attractive flowers. The living leaves are peculiar in being 
covered with clammy hairs about as disagreeable to the 
touch as were Uriah Heep’s hands. 
Back in those hills where the tobacco grows the stranger 
that you pass upon the road nods to you and wishes you a 
good day, and if you are afoot and do not look too much 
like a tramp you are reasonably sure of being invited to 
share an unfilled seat in a wagon if one overtakes you going 
your way. These are pleasant customs and worth keeping 
up, dictated by the old-fashioned spirit of neighborliness, 
which has all but been crushed out in the self-interested 
hurry and hubbub of city life. 
September 8.—In the woods nowadays there is bloom¬ 
ing a coarse, weedy-looking plant bearing aloft a straggling 
bunch of odd little yellow flowers, each with its tiny mouth 
stretched wide apart and one stamen protruding far out of 
each corner like the antennae of an insect. The blossoms, 
and indeed the whole plant, exhale a most peculiar frag¬ 
rance, which at first strikes you as agreeable and then 
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