Cirsium palustre, the marsh thistle, is a herbaceous biennial (or often perennial) flowering plant in the family Asteraceae. It is native to Europe, where it is particularly common on damp ground such as marshes, wet fields, moorland and beside streams. In Canada and the northern United States it is an introduced species that has become invasive. It grows in dense thickets that can crowd out slower growing native plants. Cirsium palustre can reach up to 2 metres (7 ft) in height and features strong stems with few branches which are covered in small spines. In its first year the plant grows as a dense rosette and in subsequent years a candelabra of dark purple or occasionally white flowers, 10–20 millimetres (0.4–0.8 in) with purple-tipped bracts. In the northern hemisphere these are produced from June to September. The plant provides an important source of nectar for pollinators. This C. palustre flower was photographed in Niitvälja, Estonia.Photograph credit: Ivar Leidus
... that Gladys Stone Wright got started with a year of free piano lessons and a $5 clarinet?
... that "At the Name of Jesus" has been described as "the only completely objective theological hymn to come from the hand of a 19th-century woman writer"?
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It is so terribly sad that I have to explain that the above is a JOKE
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!