The laws of color preference differ with the size of expanses. Our broad fields often have pleasing expanses of leafage other than green, and flowers that are as all-pervading as foliage. Many flowers of the field have their day, when each seems to be queen, a short day, but its rights none dispute. Snow of Daisies, yellow of Dandelions, gold of Buttercups, purple pinkness of Clover, Innocence, Blue-eyed Grass, Milkweed, none reign more absolutely in every inch of the fields than that poverty stricken creature, the Sorrel. William Morris warns us that "flowers in masses are mighty strong color," and must be used with much caution in a garden. But there need be no fear of massed color in a field, as being ever gaudy or cloying. An approach to the beauty and satisfaction of nature's plentiful field may be artificially obtained as an adjunct to the garden in a flower-close sown or set with a solid expanse of bloom of some native or widely adopted plant. I have seen a flower-close of Daisies, another of Buttercups, one of Larkspur, one of Coreopsis. A new field tint, and a splendid one, has been given to us within a few years, by the introduction of the vivid red of Italian clover. It is eagerly welcomed to our fields, so scant of scarlet. This clover was brought to America in the years 1824 _et seq._, and is described in contemporary publications in alluring sentences. I have noted the introduction of several vegetables, grains, fruits, berries, shrubs, and flowers in those years, and attribute this to the influence of the visit of Lafayette in 1824. Adored by all, his lightest word was heeded; and he was a devoted agriculturist and horticulturist, ever exchanging ideas, seeds, and plants with his American fellow-patriots and fellow-farmers. I doubt if Italian clover then became widely known; but our modern farmers now think well of it, and the flower lover revels in it. The exigencies of rhyme and rhythm force us to endure some very curious notions of color in the poets. I think no saying of poet ever gave greater check to her lovers than these lines of Emily Dickinson:-- "Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets, Prodigal of blue. Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover's words." I read them first with a sense of misapprehension that I had not seen aright; but there the words stood out, "Nature rarer uses yellow than another hue." The writer was such a jester, such a tricky elf that I fancy she wrote them in pure "contrariness," just to see what folks would say, how they would dispute over her words. For I never can doubt that, with all her recluse life, she knew intuitively that some time her lines would be read by folks who would love them. [Illustration: Pyrethrum.]