By the way, we have financially persuaded Opie to leave his straggling
meadow, that carpets our vista to the river, for a wild garden this
summer, instead of selling it as "standing grass," which the purchasers
had usually mown carelessly and tossed into poor-grade hay, giving a
pittance in exchange that went for taxes.
So many flowers and vines have sprung up under shelter of the
tumble-down fences that I was very anxious to see what pictures would
paint themselves if the canvas, colour, and brushes were left free for
the season through. Already we have had our money's worth, so that
everything beyond will be an extra dividend. The bit of marshy ground
has been for weeks a lake of iris, its curving brink foamed with meadow
rue and Osmundas that have all the dignity of palms.
Now all the pasture edge is set with wild roses and wax-white blueberry
flowers. Sundrops are grouped here and there, with yellow thistles; the
native sweetbrier arches over gray boulders that are tumbled together
like the relic of some old dwelling; and the purple red calopogon of the
orchid tribe adds a new colour to the tapestry, the cross-stitch filling
being all of field daisies.
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