Never will Peter forget the first time he saw the Swamp Rose Mallow, or Mallow Rose. No, sir, Peter never will forget that time. It happened one day at the very end of summer. Peter wasn't thinking of flowers. He had gone over to the Laughing Brook to pay his respects to Grandfather Frog. He is in the habit of doing this every once in a while. He found Grandfather Frog sitting on his favorite big, green, lily pad, looking very much satisfied with the world and things in general.

"You're looking fine, Grandfather Frog," said Peter.

"Chug-arum! Why shouldn't I?" replied Grandfather Frog in his deep bass voice. "Tell me, Peter Rabbit, why shouldn't I look fine?"

"You should and you do," retorted Peter. "It seems to me you are a little stouter than you were in the middle of the summer."

"Perhaps I am," replied Grandfather Frog. "Perhaps I am. If I'm not, it isn't from lack of appetite, or plenty to eat. I like to be a little stout before going to sleep for the winter, and it won't be long now before I shall begin to think about retiring. It is a long time, Peter Rabbit, since you've been over to see me. I thought the Mallows would bring you. In fact, I knew they would. Now be honest, Peter, and tell me if it wasn't to see the Mallows and not to see me that you came over here this morning."

"Mallows?" said Peter. "Mallows? What are Mallows?"

Grandfather Frog's big goggly eyes opened so wide that they really looked as if trying to pop right out of the top of his head.

"Chug-arum!" said he. "Chug-arum! Do you mean to tell me that you don't know the Rose Mallow?"

Peter nodded. "Honest I don't," said he. "Is it an animal or a bird, or what is it?"

Grandfather Frog's eyes popped more than ever. "Gracious!" he exclaimed. "Gracious me, what ignorance! Go over and look among the rushes and cattails and then come back and tell me what you think of what you find there."

Of course Peter's curiosity was aroused at once. Off he started for the upper end of the Laughing Brook. He hadn't the least idea what he would see there, and his curiosity increased with every jump. When he reached the place where the cattails grew he stared eagerly among them. He wondered if he would know the thing he had come to find if he should see it. But he wasn't long in doubt. No, sir, he wasn't long in doubt.

"It's a flower!" he cried. And then he drew a long breath of pure pleasure.

It was a flower, and such a flower as Peter had not dreamed of seeing anywhere outside of Farmer Brown's garden. It was big. In fact it was several inches across, and right away it reminded him of the Hollyhocks he had seen in Farmer Brown's garden. It was shaped much like them. And in color it was pink, — soft, beautiful pink.

Peter looked eagerly for more, and he found that there were a number of them scattered among the rushes. They grew in clusters at the tops of stout, leafy stalks, some of them taller than a tall man. The leaves were pointed at the tip and rounded at the base, and the edges were cut into small, rounded teeth. Above they were smooth and green, but underneath they were covered with a soft, whitish down.

Each of the great, pink blossoms had five rounded petals, and these seemed to have little ribs running the length of them. The pistil in the middle was divided into five tips, each tip like a little button. The stamens were joined together to form a tube around the pistil.

All the flowers that Peter could see were that beautiful rose-pink. Later he was to discover some that were white and others that had a deep, crimson spot in the center. They are lovers of the marshes, and wet places. And there are no more lovely wild flowers in the late summer and early fall.

When Peter had admired the Mallows to his heart's content he went back to tell Grandfather Frog what he thought of them. But Grandfather Frog was nowhere to be seen. Peter waited awhile and then went on to see what more he could find of interest. He hopped along the edge of the swamp, for he remembered that many of the flowers he had found of late grew where the ground was damp. He didn't really expect to find another.

But in this he was happily disappointed. He came to a great clump of tall plants. Some were almost as tall as the Giant Sunflower. The stalks were stout and most of them were stained with purple. The large, lance-shaped leaves with toothed edges grew out around the stalk at regular distances. There were three to six in each group. At the top of each stalk was a great, fuzzy-looking mass of dull pink or purplish flowers. It was a big cluster made up of many smaller clusters, and each small cluster was made up of a number of" little tubular flowers from which were thrust out hairy pistils. It was these hairy pistils that gave the mass a fuzzy appearance.

Butterflies were constantly coming and going. There were a few Bees, but it was clear to Peter that the Butterflies were the ones who loved these flowers best. He wondered what the name of this plant was. But there was no one to tell him. It was a plant of many names. The one by which it is best known is Joe-pye Weed, said to have been given it because once, long ago, an Indian Doctor named Joe Pye used it as a medicine. But it is also called the Trumpetweed, the Purple Thoroughwort, the Tall or Purple Boneset, the Gravel Root, the Kidney-root and the Queen-of-the-Meadow. I am quite sure that Peter would have thought the last name the best of all.

When at last he headed for home in the dear Old Briar-patch it was with a feeling that this day had been rich with beauty, and if you have the good fortune to find the Rose Mallow and the Joe-pye Weed I am sure you will agree with Peter.