planting them in native soil at natural altitude. But to endeavor to grow the buds in the valley altitude. will fail of success as certainly as would efforts to grow a tropical one at one thousand feet altitude.

There is nothing indicating the impossibility of growing the plants from seed, but consider a moment: If the crow-foot root is the point of seed germination, it must have reached a depth of from a few inches to five and one-half feet beneath the surface, or the plant germinated germinated near the surface, grew downward, and then returned to light. If the former, the seed must have been covered by natural processes, and have remained hidden during years, which, together, are conditions not practical experimentally, and if the latter, space, temperature, moisture, etc., would make experiments impracticable, if not impossible.

So, then, let us hear no more of snow plants growing from the seeds, for it is impossible from a practical standpoint, but that they have seeds and that they may produce a plant, is unquestionable.

But why are the closest of skilled observers led to believe it parasitic upon the pine trees, or anything?

It is true it is often, and, during the latter part of the season usually, found at the down hill side of a tree, but is as "usually" found in the same position, relatively, to a rock or log.

I have found it growing luxuriantly in a tamarac swamp miles from a conifer, or for that matter, any tree, or growing in the midst of bushes or from a heap of dead brush, or anything affording shade. The facts are these, and now,

then, let us hear no more of the parasite question.

Stock are very fond of the plant, and from earliest grass to "sear and yellow leaf," numerous sheep and other stock traverse the wood, tramping out of existence not alone flowering plants, but eggs of birds and their young, and in some sections thus destroying the nests of quail and grouse as fast as they are bunt, leaving them to roam about disconsolate. Hence, by the side of a tree, rock or log, etc., it is the least exposed to noof or sight, and then, if on the down-hill side, it is less exposed to rolling rocks, snow and earth slides, and from eye spying man, for every season hundreds search for it from valley to summit.

Now, during the last three or four years of its life, as stated elsewhere, its roots extend but a few inches downward, which admits of it resting upon a root, a few inches dirtcovered, and its peculiarity of deviating about beneath the surface and of half circling obstructions, then proceeding in direct, original line, accounts for its position above a root-in fact, the origin of the plant may have been eight or ten feet up, down, or upon either side of the tree. There is a plant of the snow plant family known as "pine drops," and they are usually found growing in the same forest, and which is classed, by all botanists, as parasitic, and which is more obscure in its original habits than the former, but there is probability that it, too, is not a parasite.

For the young botanist, in these two plants alone, lies fame as an observer, and success financially.

H

ELLO, Man! I am Nemobius, the Cricket, one of the tenants of your garden. What, you say you don't know me? Well, you should, all the same. Look here, haven't you been coming out to this place for weeks and sitting there with your back against that trellis, right alongside of my den-come, even if you don't know me, isn't it about time that we were getting acquainted? Of course it is. You certainly are a big thing, a huge, lumpy monster to my way of thinking. And yet, you have a good face, somehow, and I like your ways. I mean to know whether you like it or not. It doesn't displease you? Good. Let me tell you something. When you first began coming out here this summer you frightened me badly. I was afraid you would step on me; or, worse yet, I thought you wanted me as a black bass bait. Oh, you didn't know about that? Why, yes, these crazy fishermen hunt us to death for just that purpose. I'm with you-it is a shame. Say, you're all right. Weil, that was at first, you know. I soon saw I had no cause to fear you in the least. I know now that you actually love the little people of the grass, stupid as you are sometimes. I've seen you stay your foot from treading on us more than once. At first I used to scuttle for my den as fast as my six legs could carry me, and then I would hardly dare to even peep out as long as you stayed. But that's all over now. I know you won't hurt me. All you want is to be let alone while you make that

queer pencil of yours go wigglewiggling over those endless sheets of paper. Do you know, I rather like to watch you do it! It reminds me of the way I rub my upper wings when I sing. Slower, of course, than I am, but like it.

Now see here.. I want to know you, but I didn't break into your work for that alone to-day. I think I can be of service to you. Come, don't look cross. I've done a lot of thinking. I'm no fool. I know what I'm talking about. Listen to me a minute. You write stuff for the papers. Yes, you do. It is stuff, much of it. I've heard you read it. Now, now, wait a bit. Don't get offended. Suppose we call it stuff, then, in the newspaper sense if you wish, and let it go at that. But that's neither here nor there. What I am getting at is this. You make your bread and butter retelling the stories you hear, don't you? Certainly. Then, anything in the shape of a story should prove acceptable to you? I thought so. Well, listen; I shall try in my own way to give you an idea which you can turn into a story if you wish. Oh, that is different, is it? You're all attention, are you? Before, I was merely an interruption, a bore, if you will, who prevented that everlasting pencil from traveling. Now, however, you regard me as a possibility for "copy." Man, man, this is not quite fair, I think. I am only a little fellow, it is true, but I certainly stand as a synonym for liveliness. Besides, I come of a mighty good family. Can you deny that

Mr. Dickens gave my ancestor a life-long invitation to his immortal. Hearth? That should settle it. Suppose we change the subject, therefore, and call the matter quits. Ready, are you? Now, then, make that pencil of yours fly. I'm going to talk fast. There's a whole lot you don't know about the people and the happenings in this garden of yours.

In the first place, why is it that you are so lazy? Why do you never get out here until at least nine nine o'clock, and so miss the best part of the day? You should be around before that. I always am. I tell you, when one has been cuddling down close in one's den all night, trying his best to keep warm, he is mighty glad when morning comes. You see, we little people of the grass feel the cold so. It benumbs us; it takes the life and snap out of our bodies, and most of us hate it in consequence. Of course, I know a good deal more about cold than most of them. I was born last summer. I went safely through the perils of the winter; only three of us out here did so. All the other crickets died of the cold. I was stowed away in the heart of that rotten fence post, over in the corner by the old apple tree. You see it, don't you? Didn't know it was there! Well, you are observing Yes, that was my winter home, and glad enough I was to be there, for it must have been mighty cold out of doors. Of course, I slept all winter, and therefore I hardly cared how cold it was. This, now, is different. Then it was all right to sleep. Now, I'm wide awake most of the time, for there's a lot to be done. All the little people love to be on the move during the warm weather. My den, under the root of the grape-vine, is as warm a spot as I could ask for; but of late, as you must admit, we have had some pretty chill nights. They take the courage out of me. It is all right

during the first part of the night, but as the morning draws near I always feel my age somewhat, and growing discouraged, long for the sunlight. I have been so cold during this recent long rainy time that I have not cared to even move my wings a bit, so you have had no music.

I tell you all this so that you can understand how I felt that memorable morning recently when I came near losing my life. You see I woke late, for I had suffered considerably that night and had drowsed towards morning. Finally, when I felt the influence of the sun at the entrance of my home, I hastened along the passage-way so as to get out of doors. This old garden of ours is a mighty sweet spot at all times, but somehow I love it best in the morning. This day, however, I was almost too numb and unhappy to half enjoy things. Nor was I alone in this. The little people all around me in the grass felt much as I did, and the under world was very quiet. I warmed my stiffened limbs in the sun, and then remembering that I was thirsty, I hastened to a large clover leaf, to whose hairy undersurface there clung a drop of dew as large as my head, and drank greedily. This put new heart into me; so I started for my favorite spot to take my morning sun-bath.

The dew lay everywhere and the grass was cold to the touch. You notice also that every one of my feet is armed with two-pronged hooks. These are usually a great help. On this occasion, however, the stiffness of my joints caused them to catch frequently in the undergrowth, so that I could not proceed as fast as I wished. I met a few of the grass people, members of the ant tribe chiefly, with whom I passed the time of day. They were of four different varieties; however, to my eye they all present the same general characteristics. They are busy folk, but, although on this occasion as is

attracted and held my attention from the first moment that I saw her. She was in sore distress. This I saw at a glance. I recognized her as one of those usually well-behaved ladies one meets under old stumps and sunken planks everywhere. planks everywhere. Now she was all excitement, and her eight hairy legs expressed nothing but anxiety and sorrow, as she raced here and there in a fruitless search for something. I surmised the trouble immediately. "Madam," said I in a friendly tone from the altitude of a short grass blade, "have you lost them?" She had not seen me until I spoke, but at my first word she wheeled like lightning, and with a savageness of manner that was alarming she fixed me with her two pairs of tiny, beady eyes and cried in a weak but intensely passionate voice: "Yes, give them to me right away." I was startled. Her manner was threatening. "I haven't them, my dear lady," I said soothingly; "let me try to locate them for you, however." With that I began searching the undergrowth on every side of me, and thanks to good fortune and my keen eyes, I soon saw a brownish colored bag of silk, as it lay not far off, half hidden under a low-lying leaf of clover. "There they are, madam," said I. She noted the direction I indicated and with one bound she rushed at the object-it was twice the size of her own body-and threw herself upon it. "My darling eggs," I heard her say as I drew near, "I thought I had lost you for good." "How did it happen, madam?" I ventured to ask when I stood beside her. For a few seconds she was far too busy to reply, meanwhile drawing her beloved bundle up against her spinneret with her legs as she joined it to her once more by a single thread. Finally she turned to me, and with altered voice she replied: "Let me thank you for this. You see, I was cross and worried. Possibly you don't know the creature. If not, let

me warn you. I call him Draggle Wing to describe him better. You can always tell him in that way. He's the most detestable robin of them all here. He tried to eat me

a few minutes ago. To save myself I had to drop my eggs and run for it. Thank you very much. Goodbye. Take good care of yourself." And she vanished into the forest, dragging her eggs behind by the elastic coupling that joined them to her.

This little adventure made me

anxious. It gave me food for thought. I loathe these detestable birds. They always act out here as if they owned the entire garden. It is true I had always been able to keep out of their way, but they are extremely dangerous and many a sad and terrible story have I heard of their slaughter of the grass people. All birds are more or less disliked and feared by us-the swallow least of all possibly-but the robin, that bundle of vanity, noise and greediness, has no redeeming trait whatever, and I hate his whole tribe.

Thus thinking, I I had almost reached my destination, when I got sight of the Ruler of the Garden. No, man, I am not referring to you. You're all right in your place. You can do a whole lot of things, I know. I suppose, too, that by law this is your ground. But, after all, you're not the boss out here that you think you are. I tell you, the grass people know. Besides, you were safe in bed at the time I'm speaking of. No, the real ruler of things is the Governor, Governor Thomas, you know, and that morning, as he passed me, steady, alert, dignified, he made me glad simply to look at him.. What was that? What did you say? Don't know the Governor? Man, where have you been? You can see him every morning in the week as he passes to and fro out here, looking after things surely you know him? No? Well, welldo you know, I really feel sorry for