Can You Read 'In The Tall Grass' For Free Legally?

Seeing Mingyu in person makes his height obvious — he's one of the tallest members of Seventeen, usually listed at about 186 cm (around 6'1.5"–6'2"). I've stood near concert barriers and watched group lineups where he simply towers in a very natural, lanky way: broad shoulders, long limbs, and that model-esque presence that photographers love. In photos he often ends up framed as a pillar at the back or the clean vertical line in center formations, which is why stylists sometimes give him simpler, elongated silhouettes to emphasize that height. Compared to the rest of the group, most members cluster in the mid-to-high 170s, with a few edging into the low 180s. What that means in practice is Mingyu visibly sticks out in mixed shots — not in a distracting way, but as someone who balances out the group's dynamics. If you've seen stage blocking from 'Ideal Cut' or fancams of dance practices, you'll notice choreographers use his height for strong lines and to anchor formations. In contrast, smaller members create a nice contrast that makes costumes and stage lighting pop even more. I like to point this out when scrolling through behind-the-scenes clips: footwear and posture can change perceived height a lot, so solo photos might look slightly different from live stages. Fan comparisons and official profiles are helpful, but nothing beats a live show or high-quality group photo for seeing how Mingyu measures up — and honestly, his height just adds to his charisma on stage. If you're curious, compare group shots across albums and you'll see the same pattern; it's a subtle but fun detail to follow at concerts or in photo books.

I get oddly thrilled whenever I spot a single blade of grass on a cover — it’s like the artist dared to whisper instead of shout. For me, that little green spear often functions as a perfect focal wedge: it pulls your eye, suggests scale, and invites curiosity. Sometimes it’s a technical flourish — a study in texture, light, and shallow focus that shows the creator can render the smallest things with care. On another level, that blade becomes a tiny narrative seed. It might hint at fragility, resilience, or a specific place and season. If a novel leans on quiet introspection, a solitary blade suggests intimacy and habit; for a fantasy, it can imply magic hiding in the mundane. I love catching covers like that because they feel intentional yet humble. Finally, there’s the commercial alchemy: minimal elements are memorable in thumbnail form and carry across posters, bookmarks, and feeds. So when I see that soft green sliver against negative space, I get this immediate, cozy pull — like the book is offering me a secret detail before I even open it.

I've dug through old lexicons and poked around digitized book stacks like a curious kid in a flea-market tent, and here's how I think about the phrase 'blade of grass' — it's more a slow evolution of language than a single flash of invention. The word 'blade' itself goes way back: Old English had blæd (meaning something like a leaf or a green shoot), and through Middle English it carried on as a common word for a leaf or a flat cutting edge. So the idea of a single, thin leaf of grass being called a 'blade' is basically baked into the language from very early on. That means you'll find the components in medieval texts even if the exact modern collocation 'blade of grass' becomes more visible once printing and modern spelling stabilize in the early modern period. When I want to pin down where a phrase first appears in print, I tend to reach for a few trusty tools — the Oxford English Dictionary for citations, Early English Books Online and EEBO-TCP for 16th–17th century printing, and then Google Books / HathiTrust for 18th–19th century usage. Those repositories show the trajectory: medieval and early modern writers used 'blade' to mean a leaf many times; by the 1600s and especially into the 1700s and 1800s, the exact phrase 'blade of grass' becomes commonplace in poetry, natural history, and everyday prose. Walt Whitman's famous title 'Leaves of Grass' (1855) is a late, poetic cousin of that phrasing — romantic and symbolic — but the literal phrase was already in circulation long before Whitman made grass a literary emblem. If you're trying to find a precise first printed instance, the technical truth is that two problems make it hard to point to a single moment. First, manuscript and oral usage long predate print — people were using the vernacular way of referring to grass leaves for centuries. Second, spelling and typesetting varied a lot until the 18th century, so early printed forms might look different (e.g., 'blada', 'blade', or other regional spellings). That said, a search in the OED or EEBO often surfaces 16th- and 17th-century citations showing analogous uses. For a DIY deep dive, try searching Google Books with exact-phrase quotes 'blade of grass' and then use the date filters to scroll back; switch to specialized corpora or the OED for authoritative oldest citations. Personally, I love how this kind of little phrase carries history — you can stand with a single blade between your fingers and feel centuries of language. If you want a concrete next step, check the OED entry for 'blade' and then run the phrase search in EEBO or Google Books, and you'll probably see early printed examples from the 1600s onward. It’s a cozy detective hunt: the trail leads from Old English roots to commonplace usage in early modern print, with poets like Whitman later giving the concept lofty symbolic weight. Happy digging — and if you want, tell me what time range or corpus you’d like me to imagine chasing next, because I always enjoy these little linguistic treasure hunts.

On quiet mornings I’ll kneel with a coffee and stare at a single blade of grass like it’s a tiny battlefield — pests don’t care if something looks insignificant, so gardeners learn to protect the whole plant by focusing on the ecosystem around it. The very first step I take is identification: is the damage from chewing caterpillars, surface-feeding slugs, root-feeding grubs, or fungal disease? Once you know the enemy, the tactics change. I use a simple integrated approach: inspect regularly, encourage predators, change cultural practices to make the turf less hospitable to pests, and only spot-treat when necessary. For cultural defenses I keep watering to mornings only, raise the mower height so blades have more leaf area (taller grass shades soil and discourages many pests), aerate in spring or fall to keep roots healthy, and topdress with compost to boost soil life. Healthy grass is the best defense — a vigorous blade can outgrow minor chewing and recover from attacks. For biological controls I’ll introduce beneficial nematodes for soil grubs, spread milky spore where Japanese beetle grubs are a yearly problem, or apply Bacillus thuringiensis (Bt) to target caterpillars without hurting pollinators. I also try to attract natural predators: a small brush pile, native flowers at the lawn edge, or a birdbath can bring ground beetles, birds, and parasitic wasps that do the heavy lifting for free. When physical action is needed I’ll hand-pick slugs, use copper barriers around high-value patches (yes, it sounds fancy for a blade of grass, but sometimes you’re saving a cherished patch of turf), or apply diatomaceous earth sparsely along borders. I avoid broad-spectrum pesticides unless it’s a real outbreak; those can wipe out the good guys and leave you worse off. Spot-sprays of neem oil or insecticidal soap can work for soft-bodied pests, and timing matters — treating grubs in late summer, for instance, is far more effective than spraying willy-nilly. Mostly, I rely on observation and patience: a mix of cultural resilience, selective biologicals, and minimal interventions keeps each blade happier. If you haven’t already, try keeping a small notebook of pest sightings — it’s oddly satisfying and helps you predict problems before they become dramatic, which is how I like to garden these days.

One of my all-time favorite children's books that beautifully explores the world of grass and plants is 'The Tiny Seed' by Eric Carle. The illustrations are vibrant and engaging, capturing the essence of nature in a way that captivates young readers. The story follows the journey of a tiny seed as it navigates through various challenges, ultimately growing into a magnificent flower. It's a wonderful way to teach kids about the life cycle of plants, and the colorful pages make it an absolute treat for storytime. I still remember reading it to my little cousin, who was so fascinated by how the seed transformed and thrived despite the odds. It sparked her curiosity about gardening, and soon enough, we were planting our own little seeds in the backyard! Another charming book is 'Planting a Rainbow' by Lois Ehlert. This one's more of an introduction to different flowers and colors, and it’s perfect for kids who love art and nature. The cut-out illustrations allow you to see what's underneath the page, which is such a fun interactive element! It not only tells the process of planting but also introduces children to the concept of colors and how they relate to plants. Reading it together is always a joy, plus it encourages them to appreciate the beauty of gardens. I found this book extremely useful when I started my own vegetable garden. It really instills a sense of wonder and respect for the environment from a young age. If you're looking for something a bit more whimsical, 'The Curious Garden' by Peter Brown is a delightful choice! It’s about a young boy who discovers a neglected patch of gray city and how he transforms it into a lush garden. Its heartwarming message of growth and care for the environment really resonates. Every time I reread it, I’m reminded of how important it is to nurture not just plants but also our surroundings. It's definitely one that encourages kids to see the beauty in nature and even take part in the gardening process! I think these books create a lovely foundation for children, inspiring them to explore the green world around them and beyond.

'The Grass is Singing' by Doris Lessing explores the complexity of human relationships and the intersections of race and class in South Africa. One quote that really struck me was, 'It was a new place for her, hot and dry, and it frightened her. But she knew the importance of adapting to the surroundings.' This encapsulates not just the physical environment but also the psychological struggle of the characters trying to find their identity in a harsh, unforgiving landscape. Another poignant line is, 'I want you to come with me into the grass, for there lies a different world.' This isn’t just about exploring the natural beauty of the grasslands, but it symbolizes delving into the unknown, confronting personal fears, and seeking deeper truths about oneself. It resonated with me, reminding me of how often we shy away from the things that challenge us, yet those moments are the most rewarding. Lastly, there's this haunting reflection: 'In the stillness, the grass whispered secrets of those who had come before.' It makes me consider how nature holds stories that connect us all across time. Every piece of grass has history, just like every person has their own story. The imagery here really paints a picture of the interconnectedness of human experience and the natural world—how we’re all part of a larger tapestry. Lessing really weaves depth into her words, inspiring you to consider the layers beneath the surface of life and relationships.

Exploring the intricacies of 'The Grass Book' really resonates with me as a garden enthusiast. Right from the first chapter, it dives deep into the science of grass, blending botany with practical gardening advice that’s incredibly useful. For anyone passionate about planting, this book is like discovering a secret garden of knowledge. It illuminates why certain grass varieties thrive in specific climates and the unique qualities they bring to our outdoor spaces. It’s not just about aesthetics; the book elaborates on the significance of grass in our ecosystems, including how it provides vital habitat for wildlife and helps in soil conservation. But what really sets it apart is the author’s engaging writing style. They share relatable anecdotes from their own gardening experiences, making it feel like you’re discussing growth tips with a friend over coffee. The illustrations are detailed and vivid, providing a clear guide to identifying various grass species – a big help when you’re planning your landscape or taking on lawn care! Each page surpassed my expectations, enriching my understanding and appreciation of this often-overlooked plant family. In the end, I think any gardener looking to elevate their skills should definitely give 'The Grass Book' a read. It’s more than just a gardening manual; it’s a celebration of the small wonders that make our green spaces a sanctuary.

Stepping into 'Grass' feels like wandering through a vibrant, living tapestry of nature. The author has this magical way of capturing the subtleties of the landscape, making every little detail leap off the pages and into your mind. It's not just about the grand vistas or towering trees; it's about the small, often overlooked elements that stitch the world together: the dew on the grass blades in the morning, the rustle of leaves as a breeze dances through, and the intricate relationships between plants and creatures. Each chapter immerses you deeper into this exquisite biodiversity, showcasing how nature's beauty thrives in both its grandeur and its minutiae. The writing is lyrical and poetic, evoking images so vivid you can almost smell the earth after rain. You find yourself appreciating things like a spider’s web glistening in the sunlight or the quiet persistence of wildflowers breaking through a crack in the pavement. It's these delicate observations that highlight not only nature’s beauty but also its fragility. I often flipped back through the pages, lingering on the passages that resonated with me, as if to soak in every detail just a bit longer. The blend of rich description and emotional depth makes it feel as though the landscape is a character in its own right, breathing and pulsating with life. Ultimately, the book invites reflection on our relationship with nature. How do we interact with it? What do we take for granted? It's a wake-up call for anyone who spends too much time indoors. You don’t just read about nature in 'Grass' — you experience it, rediscovering the warmth of sunlit afternoons and the serenity that comes with quiet moments spent outdoors.