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it very inferior to the sjn'ingy—pliant—waving and ever 
graceful wild Harebell. And wild flowers are so much dearer 
than cultivated ones,—at least I find them so—having been 
ever fonder of seeking chance beauties in the field, lane, and 
woodland, than of contemplating the gayer tribes of the 
garden. It is such a delightful surprise to discover one of 
one’s darhng wild flowers in a spot and season when we 
dreamed not of meeting it; it is an unlooked-for boon of 
nature: hut in gardens we expect to find abundance of fair 
things,—and very rai'ely does the disposal of the flowers, or 
the general an’angement, please my fancy; though a wild 
hedge-bank, or a heathy moor, leave me nothing to wish for. 
Where is the Garden-guest that may outshine the stately, 
tall, magnificent Foxglove ? This is as remarkable for its 
majestic, lofty demeanour, as the light, lithe Harebell for 
its modest playfulness. The tall spiral stem, springing up 
from the gi’oup of broad leaves, and thickly hung with the 
beautiful purple blossoms, gradually lessening in size from 
the large open bells on the lower portion of the stalk, to 
the little buds on the summit, still wrapped up in their 
close gi’een calices, is an object so strikingly beautiful, 
that I should think any person who had once given it an 
attentive observance must inevitably be a lover of flowers to 
the end of his days. I know many of my readers will say 
I am an enthusiast in my affection for them; but I ought 
to add that my enthusiasm is the result of love and admi¬ 
ration, little aided by scientific knowledge as yet; though 
I gladly anticii)ate the time when a better acquaintance with 
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