nominated a thrush.
The really rustic names of both plants and animals are very few with us,—the different species are many; and as we come to know them better and love them more, we absolutely require some way to distinguish them from their half-sisters and second-cousins.
It is hopeless to try to create new popular epithets, or even to revive those which are thoroughly obsolete.
Miss Cooper may strive in vain, with benevolent intent, to christen her favorite spring blossoms May-Wings and Gay-Wings, and Fringe-Cup and Squirrel-Cup, and Cool-Wort and Bead-Ruby; there is no conceivable reason why these should not be the familiar appellations, except the irresistible fact that they are not. It is impossible to create a popular name: one might as well attempt to invent a legend or compose a ballad.
Nascitur, non fit.
As the spring comes on, and the changing outlines of the elm give daily a new design for a Grecian urn,— its hue first brown with blossoms, then emerald with leaves,
estival could not have been much better timed; for the delicate blossoms which mark the period are usually in perfection on this day, and it is not long before they are past their prime.
Some early plants which have now almost disappeared from Eastern Massachusetts are still found near Worcester in the greatest abundance,—as the larger Yellow Violet, the Red Trillium, the dwarf Ginseng.
the Clintonia or Wild Lily-of-the-Valley, and the pretty fringed Polygala, which Miss Cooper christened Gay-Wings.
Others, again, are now rare near Worcester, and growing rarer, though still abundant a hundred miles farther inland.
In several bits of old, swampy wood one may still find, usually close together, the Hobble-Bush and the Painted Trillium, the Mitella, or Bishop's-Cap, and the snowy Tiarella.
Others still have entirely vanished within ten years, and that in some cases without any adequate explanation.
The dainty white Corydalis, profanely called Dutchman's Breeches, and the quaint,