Lysander, tired of waiting, came striding through the tarweed, with his hoe on his shoulder.
"Stories of the Foot-hills"
Margaret Collier Graham
And the tinkle of pleasant waters, the song of a meadow lark, the distant mellow lowing of cows came to his ears; the smell of tarweed and of pines mingled in his nostrils.
"The Killer"
Stewart Edward White