“Perhaps that’s it,” she answered, thoughtfully. “But it don’t smell—leastways, I’ve never smelt nothin’ from it.”
I stood aside as the judges came up. When he saw the plant, standing so bravely and so healthily, and so beautifully in its bright red pot, the curate laughed out loud.
“Look here,” said he to one of the other judges, who came up and laughed as well.
“Do you know what you’ve got here, my good woman?” asked the curate.
She shook her head.
“Well, we can’t give you anything for this—it’s only a common nettle—a red dead nettle.”
“But it’s a beautiful colour—ain’t it?” said she, with a flame of red in her face.
“Oh—it’s a beautiful colour, no doubt,” replied the curate easily—“so, I hope, is every plant that grows in the highways and the byways.”
“Well, then, why shouldn’t it get a prize?” she demanded.