The bright blue flowers of chicory,
That wayside friend I choose to be.”
“Wayside friend—mark ye! Wal! I wouldn’t say that she hasn’t got her wish—would you?” The farmer—the farmer who would no more trample upon the morning glory—winked slyly, nudged his wife, jerked his thumb in the direction of broad tables among the trees, whose ware and glass suggested junketing as well as pageantry.
“That’s you, Si; always thinking o’ foddering!” expostulated his wife—the wife who succumbed to spell-women and “fore-goes.” “Dear me sass! what have we here—golden mouse-ear.” She expanded into delight. “I was a-picking of it in the woods only yesterday an ’twill light ’em on into September—devil’s paint brush the children call it.”
“I light the mountain’s grassy knolls
With stars of gorgeous hue,
Burnt orange in a sky of green
Instead of gold in blue.”
It was Lura who, as tawny hawkweed, that wild flower of many nicknames, delivered this account of herself—her “copper nob” shining as burnt orange, indeed.
Dandelion, poppy, humble chickweed, lovely wild rose, field marigold, pimpernel, others—all the sleepy flowers that favor the sand-man—were represented.