LARGE, placid mulleins, as summer advances, velvety in texture, of a light greenish-drab color, growing everywhere in the fieldsat first earths big rosettes in their broad-leavd low clusterplants, eight, ten, twenty leaves to a plantplentiful on the fallow twenty-acre lot, at the end of the lane, and especially by the ridge-sides of the fencesthen close to the ground, but soon springing upleaves as broad as my hand, and the lower ones twice as longso fresh and dewy in the morningstalks now four or five, even seven or eight feet high. The farmers, I find, think the mullein a mean unworthy weed, but I have grown to a fondness for it. Every object has its lesson, enclosing the suggestion of everything elseand lately I sometimes think all is concentrated for me in these hardy, yellow-flowerd weeds. As I come down the lane early in the morning, I pause before their soft wool-like fleece and stem and broad leaves. glittering with countless diamonds. Annually for three summers now, they and I have silently returnd together; at such long intervals I stand or sit among them, musingand woven with the rest, of so many hours and moods of partial rehabilitationof my sane or sick spirit, here as near at peace as it can be.