The stone wall

A few plants of mullein, commonly known in the East as “Indian tobacco,” showed themselves in my garden. Weeds. They must be hoed up, but the velvety sage green of the fuzzy leaves held my hand. My mind went back many years, recalling a sermon I once heard a Unitarian minister preach on the subject “What is weeds?” He prefaced his talk with the recital of an experience in his garden one morning, when a small boy, peeping through the fence, asked the usual question “What yer doin’?” The minister answered: “I’m pulling up weeds.” “What is weeds?” asked the boy. The memory of that sermon stayed with me for many years and now asserted itself. Who shall determine that such is a weed which must be hoed up because it always has been? Those mullein “weeds” grew and flourished, carefully tended as were the legitimate flowers in the garden. How grateful they seemed. The leaves broadened and covered much space. The glimpse of that wonderful Corot green daily went to my heart as the pictures from that great artist’s hand had ever done.