In other cases the English name is a mere modification of the Latin one, and our ideal associations have really a scientific basis:  as with Violet, Lily, Laurel, Gentian, Vervain.  Indeed, our enthusiasm for vernacular names is like that for Indian names, one-sided:  we enumerate only the graceful ones, and ignore the rest.  It would be a pity to Latinize Touch-me-not, or Yarrow, or Gold-Thread, or Self-Heal, or Columbine, or Blue-Eyed-Grass,—­though, to be sure, this last has an annoying way of shutting up its azure orbs the moment you gather it, and you reach home with a bare, stiff blade, which deserves no better name than Sisyrinchium anceps. But in what respect is Cucumber-Root preferable to Medeola, or Solomon’s-Seal to Convallaria, or Rock-Tripe to Umbilicaria, or Lousewort to Pedicularis?  In other cases the merit is divided:  Anemone may dispute the prize of melody with Windflower, Campanula with Harebell, Neottia with Ladies’-Tresses, Uvularia with Bellwort and Strawbell, Potentilla with Cinquefoil, and Sanguinaria with Bloodroot.  Hepatica may be bad, but Liverleaf is worse.  The pretty name of May-flower is not so popular, after all, as that of Trailing-Arbutus, where the graceful and appropriate adjective redeems the substantive, which happens to be Latin and incorrect at the same time.  It does seem a waste of time to say Chrysanthemum leucanthemum instead of Whiteweed; though, if the long scientific name were an incantation to banish the intruder, our farmers would gladly consent to adopt it.

But the great advantage of a reasonable use of the botanical name is, that it does not deceive us.  Our primrose is not the English primrose, any more than it was our robin who tucked up the babes in the wood; our cowslip is not the English cowslip, it is the English marsh-marigold,—­Tennyson’s “wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray.”  The pretty name of Azalea means something definite; but its rural name of Honeysuckle confounds under that name flowers without even an external resemblance,—­Azalea, Diervilla, Lonioera, Aquilegia,—­just as every bird which sings loud in deep woods is popularly denominated a thrush.  The really rustic names of both plants and animals are very few with us,—­the different species are many; and as we come to know them better and love them more, we absolutely require some way to distinguish them from their half-sisters and second-cousins.  It is hopeless to try to create new popular epithets, or even to revive those which are thoroughly obsolete.  Miss Cooper may strive in vain, with benevolent intent, to christen her favorite spring-blossoms “May-Wings” and “Gay-Wings,” and “Fringe-Cup” and “Squirrel-Cup,” and “Cool-Wort” and “Bead-Ruby”; there is no conceivable reason why these should not be the familiar appellations, except the irresistible fact that they are not.  It is impossible to create a popular name:  one might as well attempt to invent a legend or compose a ballad. Nascitur, non fit.