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the keen glittering sickle. Foxgloves, Ferns, Thistles, and the 
delicate Harebells adorn bank, lane, moorland, and forest, 
filling the covetous, grasping hands of little wanderers with 
magnificent nosegays, among which may sometimes be de¬ 
tected the luscious sweetness and pallid tint of a lingering 
Honeysuckle. 
On the glorious hills of our Mountain-land, Wales, I have 
gathered myriads of minute and exquisite Autumn flowers, 
among which the sweet wild Thyme is eminently beautiful. 
How often have I exclaimed in the language of Shakspeare— 
“ I know a bank whereon the wild Thyme grows,” where 
it covers the dark rock with large soft beds of its delicious 
purple clusters, “ lulled in whose bowers” the Fairy Queen 
nright well repose, while its aromatic perfume would greet 
her with delicate incense. 
In the garden we have many gay and popular favourites. 
The giant Sunflower, so contradictorily alluded to by Poets, 
sometimes as a parasite, sometimes as a constant lover, turns 
to the deity-king of heaven its yellow ray-like petals and 
broad brown disk, where the busy bees are ever creeping 
about and humming, as they draw the sweets fi-om its 
multitude of florets. The splendid and infinitely various 
Dahlia raises its luxuriant form, crowned with modelled 
flowers of every imaginable shade of colour. The double 
Dahlias have, in my opinion, too entirely superseded their 
single ancestors, whose deep-gold, powdery centres were so 
very beautiful, I cannot partake the great admiration 
bestowed by fancy-florists upon all double monstrosities. 
