as freely in the cornfields as the scar¬ 
let poppy. The buds of this plant are 
gathered by the old wife and made 
into a decoction so bitter that it must 
be a sufferer indeed who is willing 
to gulp it down. The corn-marigold 
was one of those plants which always 
found a place in my lady’s still-room, 
where she compounded flavours for 
cooking, perfumes and washes for the 
toilet, and medicines for the family, 
the receipts for which were handed 
down from one generation to another. 
In the Black Forest, Germany, every 
family, however poor, strives to grow 
a plant of white chrysanthemums, in 
memory of that Christmas Eve so 
long ago when the Christ Child came 
to the cottage of a peasant asking for 
shelter and food. The family was 
very poor, the legend runs; the father 
worked hard to get enough food to 
fill the many little mouths, and keep 
183 
