Lab
Library
Journal
Shop
Sign in
to keep
1
235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
14
III.
I
am
no
botanist,
but
I
have
long
found
pleasure
in
herb-gathering.
I
love
to
come
upon
a
plant
which
is
unknown
to
me,
to
identify
it
with
the
help
of
my
book,
to
greet
it
by
name
when
next
it
shines
beside
my
path.
If
the
plant
be
rare,
its
discovery
gives
me
joy.
Nature,
the
great
Artist,
makes
her
common
flowers
in
the
common
view;
no
word
in
human
language
can
express
the
marvel
and
the
loveliness
even
of
what
we
call
the
vulgarest
weed,
but
these
are
fashioned
under
the
gaze
of
every
passer-by.
The
rare
flower
is
shaped
apart,
in
places
secret,
in
the
Artist's
subtler
mood;
to
find
it
is
to
enjoy
the
sense
of
admission
to
a
holier
precinct.
Even
in
my
gladness
I
am
awed.
To-day
I
have
walked
far,
and
at
the
end
of
my
walk
I
found
the
little
white-flowered
wood-ruff.
It
grew
in
a
copse
of
young
ash.
When
I
had
looked
long
at
the
flower,
I
delighted
myself
with
the
grace
of
the
slim
trees
about
it--their
shining
smoothness,
their
olive
hue.
Hard
by
stood
a
bush
of
wych
elm;
its
tettered
bark,
overlined
as
if
with
the
character
of
some
unknown
tongue,
made
the
young
ashes
yet
more
beautiful.
It
matters
not
how
long
I
wander.
There
is
no
task
to
bring
me
back;
no
one
will
be
vexed
or
uneasy,
linger
I
ever
so
late.
Spring
is
shining
upon
these
lanes
and
meadows;
I
feel
as
if
I
must
follow
every
winding
track
that
opens
by
my
way.
Spring
has
restored
to
me
something
of
the
long-forgotten
vigour
of
youth;
I
walk
without
weariness;
I
sing
to
myself
like
a
boy,
and
the
song
is
one
I
knew
in
boyhood.
Marker
Marker
Fine marker
White-out
Fine white-out
Circle
Paint
Unmarker
Hand
Scalpel
Dice
Sieve
Purify
Undo
Redo
Start over
