Humans declare these native groundcovers “not showy” enough, but the animals might have a different perspective. Meet some of my new favorite allies in the garden.

In gardens, as in the rest of my life, I tend to follow crooked paths. No destination is important enough to supersede concern for other beings along the way. Just as the “avoid highways” option on my navigation app helps me slow down for wildlife, my reel mower and battery-operated hand trimmer give me a chance to brake for toadlets hopping through the grass or ants busily carrying food to their homes.

They also leave enough space to spot plants who are showing their little faces for the first time: the blue-eyed grass making itself at home in what remains of the old lawn or the oak sapling sprouted under the shade of an ash tree. Whether carried in by birds and wind or breaking out of a long dormant seedbank, these native species volunteering in our habitat are sure to help the many creatures who’ve evolved alongside them. That alone is reason enough to avoid chopping the plants’ heads off.

Skirting these treasures may take longer in the short term than a merciless mowing-down, but, as I’ve discovered, the payoffs over time are significant, and not only for wildlife. While the ground huggers  purchased at native plant sales over the years—golden ragwort, Robin’s plantain, and sea oats—have continued to proliferate wherever they’re planted, a number of other species are taking up residence without prompting all over the property. They’ve become unexpected partners, providing assistance in my ongoing quest to supplant invasive species with natives that are more valuable to wildlife.

As much as I appreciate these workhorses of the plant world, though, that view isn’t always shared. Their lesser status may not be helped by their questionable common names. When I told my friend Will Cook, the president of Adkins Arboretum, about three recent arrivals—white avens, Canadian black snakeroot, and enchanter’s nightshade—he spotted a theme: “Sounds like Count Dracula’s garden!”

It’s an apt comparison, as I’ve observed that all of these plants are worthy competitors of garlic mustard, recalling Dracula’s deadly fear of garlic. Weaving in and out of bare areas, the plants work in tandem, covering ground more naturally than mulch and more helpfully than garlic mustard and the other dominant invasive in our habitat, Japanese stiltgrass. In addition to feeding small bees and other pollinators, they also provide a mixed menu for deer: Black snakeroot (Sanicula canadensis) is thought to be too bitter for them; white avens (Geum canadense) is only occasionally nibbled; and enchanter’s nightshade (Circaea lutetiana) has proven tasty enough to make a good browse plant. By nurturing such diversity in our habitat, I’m able to continue gardening for deer, rather than against them, and still have an abundance of plants for other animals.

Yet in spite of all their positive traits, these species carry the usual lowly status that natives often do. Described as “weedy” and “not showy” (as if being “showy” is a measure of worth), they’re also taken for granted because they’re usually free. “A few is OK, but I don’t want it taking over,” wrote one gardener online about enchanter’s nightshade that volunteered in her yard. “It is scraggly and the flowers are almost invisible,” wrote another. I can’t help but think if they’d paid good money for these plants, these people would try harder to notice their more positive traits.

Instead of seeing plants through our own eyes and expectations, we should consider their contributions through the perspective of other species. Even through casual observation, we can watch which new plant friends come to join them, who among the minifauna prefers their flowers, and how these dynamic and developing communities evolve over time. Here are a few observations I’ve made about my latest misunderstood volunteers:

White avens (Geum canadense)

Like Dracula, who could turn himself into a bat, a wolf and a dog, this plant is a shape-shifter. In winter and early spring, it sprouts a fern-like basal rosette of dark green and minty hues. As the season progresses, the plant sends up stems that include trifoliate leaves, reminding some people of strawberries, as well as smaller, simpler leaves. Just to keep us guessing even more, immature white avens are similar in appearance to garlic mustard, often showing up right next to their invasive doppelganger.

The first white avens to appear at my house popped up years ago below the back deck. Its leaves and delicate flowers looked pretty to me, so I left it, until one day I became nervous it would “take over” and did what many other gardeners do: I pulled it. In the ensuing years, when the plant forgave my early ignorance by showing its pretty face elsewhere, I was wise enough to let it be. This season, in a space that was previously covered in garlic mustard and stiltgrass, white avens has intermingled with sea oats, ostrich ferns, nimblewill and other natives to form a beautiful blanket of green hues. Looking closely, I’ve found beetles and syrphid flies, both important pollinators, enjoying the flowers.

Canadian black snakeroot (Sanicula canadensis)

Thought to be named for its use as an anti-venom medicinal in earlier times, Canadian black snakeroot forms a beautiful, contiguous groundcover if you let it. I first noticed this plant under a grove of silky dogwoods, a singleton whose leaves reminded me vaguely of a cross between Virginia creeper vine and marijuana. Within a couple of years, the plant has grown into a sizeable patch and shaded out the invasive Bradford pear seedlings that were previously in its path.

Upon discovering this new development in the spring, I also noticed the snakeroot rambling over garlic mustard. Growing in a space where wild grapevines are smothering bush honeysuckle and walnuts are also displacing the pear seeding grounds, the snakeroot was doing such a good job of restoring the land that I decided to avoid interfering. Now, at the height of summer, the area it inhabits is so thick and lush that the snakeroot is hidden from view; I would have to bushwhack it to check up on the plant’s progress. After seeing an Eastern box turtle nestled into the grasses at the edge of this wild haven, I’m happy to let everyone be and wait until next spring to see what surprises await.

Enchanter’s nightshade (Circaea lutetiana)

Anyone who has declared this plant “not showy” has not looked at it closely. The tiny, delicate flowers are as spectacular as orchids, with two petals and come-hither stamens. Soft hairs on the ovaries create a magical glow, adding to the movie star effect.

I didn’t look very closely either the first time I saw this plant spreading across an area by our driveway that used to heave up invasive plants by the hundreds. The spot had always been challenging. After a storm that had knocked down another Bradford pear not long after we moved to our home, I’d tried vegetable gardens, cottage gardens and herb gardens before finally giving up, assuming the little patch was too disturbed and too overrun to ever transform. As is so often the case, my decision to step back made all the difference.

First came the accidental discovery a few years ago that a vigorous native groundcover called golden ragwort (Packera aurea) is the ultimate solution to crowding out garlic mustard, a welcome lesson I detailed in “How to Fight Plants with Plants.” And then this summer, just as I was getting worried about the latest incursion of garlic mustard and stiltgrass in a large area the ragwort had not yet reached, enchanter’s nightshade came to the rescue. At first I thought it might be jewelweed, then lopseed, before finally settling on its true identity. I have a vague recollection that I may have noticed this plant in a previous season, waited a while to see what happened, and then—contrary to all the advice I dispense—eventually pulled it when I couldn’t figure out what it was. I’m not proud. But fortunately, like the white avens, the enchanter’s nightshade forgave me too, giving me another reminder of the importance of waiting, watching, wondering, and giving in to all that we still don’t know about the world right under our feet.

For more information on these plants …

White avens: Always a helpful resource in areas far beyond the Midwest, Illinois Wildflowers provides a more detailed description of the many leaf forms this shape-shifting plant takes.

Canadian black snakeroot: Sanicula canadensis can be hard to tell apart from Sanicula marilandica and other related species. It’s helpful to wait until the plants flower; Minnesota Wildflowers briefly explains the differences in the blooms.

Enchanter’s nightshade: Elizabeth’s Wildflower Blog has several delightful entries about this underappreciated plant.

To learn if a plant’s native range extends to your area, check out the Biota of North America Program’s plant atlas and the Ladybird Johnson Wildflower Center’s native plant database.