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Of course it is all in use, just as it is with whippoorwills and the morning-glory. The mention of the evening primrose calls for the further remark that plants, not less than ourselves, have a trick of combining opposite qualities, a coarse-grained and scraggy habit, for instance, with blossoms of exquisite fragrance and beauty.
The action occupies the night after the news, and turns upon the fact that each sister is roused, unknown to the other, at different hours, to be told that the report about her husband is false. One cannot give its beauty without the whole, more than one can separate the dewdrop from the morning-glory without losing the effect they make together.
At last she wanted to go up so much, that she caught hold of the bark of the tree, and pulled herself up a little. And little by little, before she knew it, she was climbing. And she climbed right up the tree to the little Wren's nest, and put her sweet face over the edge of the nest, where the little Wren could see. That was how the Morning-Glory came to climb.
The root of the Radish is different from any of these; it is fleshy. Often, it tapers suddenly at the bottom into a root like that of the Morning-Glory with some fibres upon it. It is, in fact, as the Morning-Glory would be if the main root were to be thickened up by food being stored in it. It is a primary tap-root.
I always think of the morning-glory as the loveliest example of a graceful yielding to the inevitable. It is beautiful before its twisted corolla opens; it is comely as it folds its petals inward, when its brief hours of perfection are over. Women find it easier than men to grow old in a becoming way.
"In one moment, dear; I wish only to bind up this morning-glory, that poor Fanny chanced to pull down as she ran through." Edith disappeared in the cottage. Marian stood with both her rosy arms raised, in the act of binding up the vine, that with its wealth of splendid azure-hued, vase-shaped flowers, over-canopied her beautiful head like a triumphal arch.
But the silly little Morning-glory still wanted to leave the big vine, and the next time the breeze came along it pushed up its head and the breeze took it off the big vine and bore it along with it far, far away.
Deb regarded with shining eyes a pale blue morning-glory with a little cap of white. "This is Ruth I love her! The dark one is Hagar she was dark, you know and those two are Rachel and Leah." "Ol' Miss Babylon!" said Miranda succinctly, and put forth a many-petalled red lady. "Babylon, Babylon, Red an' sinnin' Babylon, Wash her han's in Jordan flood, Still she's sinnin' Babylon!"
She had forgotten her watch her mother's little gold watch; she had left it on her dressing table. Jane Lavinia hurried down the lane and back to the house. In the open kitchen doorway she paused, standing on a mosaic of gold and shadow where the sunshine fell through the morning-glory vines.
In a small front yard of a bungalow at Colpetty, a few climbing vines of the old-fashioned pink, purple, and white morning-glory greeted the eye like the smile of a half-forgotten friend. How familiar and suggestive they were in their sweet simplicity.
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