A degenerate kind of grass.
1909. “I never knew anybody to plant anything here but once,” he said. “He put in potatoes, but he mowed the patch for hay. It wasn’t first class hay—quack never is, and this wasn’t even decent quack. But it was worth more than any potatoes he could have dug. I shouldn’t be surprised to see you get tired of fighting quack and make a meadow of it, as he did.”—N.Y. Evening Post, March 11.
