There is a deadly foe, an army of foes, hiding under these luxuriant festoons and masses of cheerful flowers.
Isn't it strange and sad and pitiful, that it is the summer guest who alone enjoys the delights of summering in the country?
There is no time for rest, for recreation, for flowers, for outdoor pleasures, for the average farmer and his family.

You seldom see any bright faces at the windows, which are seldom opened--only a glimpse here and there of a sad, haggard creature, peering out for curosity.

Strange would it be to hear peals of merry laughter; stranger still to see a family enjoying a meal on the piazza or a game on the grass.

As for flowers, they are valued no more than weeds; the names of the most common are unknown.

I asked in vain a dozen people last summer, what that flower was called, pointing to the ubiquitous Joe Rye weed or pink motherwort.