Ben tried in vain to get up the roots. The stems broke off in his hands, leaving the roots firm in the ground.
“I’ll have to take them after a rain,” said Gill. “That will loosen them a little. Here’s another tough affair, this Canada thistle. I must put my leather mittens on, before I touch it, or I shall get well pricked. It carries its weapons in its leaves.”
“They’re as thick around the edges as the pins in my pocket cushion,” said Ben, taking out a little leaf made of pasteboard, covered with green velvet, and stuck closely with pins. “See how nice I keep your birthday present, sister.‘Tis always in my jacket pocket next my heart.”
Sally looked pleased. “I’ll make you another when that is worn out,” she said.
Gill tugged at the thistle. By and by up it came at a lusty pull; but the Scotchman landed plump upon the ground. That made sport for the little people, and Gill joined them in their mirth.
“You’re just what you mean, ‘austere’ or ‘harsh,’” said Gill, shaking his fist at the plant, and making believe angry, as he arose to his feet. “You stick your sharp spears into me, and then throw me flat upon my back, without reference to my size, or my age; but I’ll get the better of you yet. You can not stand here and scatter your downy seeds in the air, to fall and vegetate and spring up to make trouble for me by and by. Wait till the autumn comes, and I’ll get my spade and take up every mother’s son of you.”
“The blossom is pretty,” said Sally, touching the feathery purple with her finger tips.
“So it is,” said Gill. “What are common weeds in one country are rare, choice plants in another. Where this does not grow, it would be thought exquisite; but the Canada thistle is wide spread throughout the world.”
“‘Tis enough prettier than the cactus that mother takes such care of,” said Ben.
“Oh, yes, there’s nothing graceful in that plant, with its thick, bristly body. To be sure the blossom is very brilliant; but I like a flower that is set off by graceful green leaves.”