302 IOWA ACADEMY OF SCIENCE Vol. XXVI, 1919 



The most common tree along the river bank is the sycamore, and 

 at Mounds Park I saw my first beech tree, and found the tiny 

 burs and queer, three-cornered nuts that Grandmother always 

 brought back with her after a trip to Boston. 



In Mounds Park is the largest mound in Indiana. It is in the 

 form of a fortification, 384 feet in diameter, with a ditch inside that 

 is 10>2 feet deep. On the crest of the mound are grand old trees, 

 red, white, bur and chesnut oaks, and elms, and close by, beeches, 

 all characteristic of the Limberlost. 



On my return I came northeast from Anderson to Rome City, 

 crossing at Bluffton a branch of the Wabash that has been immor- 

 talized by the Indiana Bird Woman. 



After a night's rest at Lakeside Inn, I started out the morning of 

 March 14, 1919, in a sleety storm for a two mile hike around the 

 tnd of Sylvan Lake, in order to stand in the forest beside the home 

 ni Gene Stratton Porter, and breathe into my soul the spirit of the 

 forest that she has so idealized. 



At the Sower's farmhouse I left the main road, and took a short 

 cut down the lane that leads from their barn to Mrs. Porter's back 

 door. On one side of the lane was a rail fence, and in fancy I 

 < ould see the robins that would soon be nesting there, the cardinals 

 and bluebirds that would pour forth their glorious notes of glad- 

 ness for the babies nestled close under the little mother's breast. 



At the end of the lane stands a grand old oak, and when I re- 

 lurned I was fortunate in securing a good picture of it. It is a 

 typical Limberlost tree, tall, straight as an arrow, and no branches 

 lower than fifteen feet at least. 



Passing through two gates that each bore the sign, "Private 

 Grounds — No admittance" I at last stood in the land of my dreams. 

 At the right stood the story and a half log cabin of Mrs. Porter, 

 with the other buildings. In front of me lay beautiful Sylvan Lake, 

 with the gentle lapping of its wind-whipt waves on the beach, 

 while all around me were the grand old forest trees. Nothing broke 

 the Sabbath quiet but the creaking of the wind-tossed treetops — 

 until out of the stillness there came the song of a cardinal, "Pretty- 

 pretly-pretty-pretty-bird-bird-quip-quip." and there only fifty feet 

 away he sat and sang a greeting to the Iowa Bird Woman. All 

 about me flitted bluebirds, nuthatches and chickadees, while over 

 the tree top came the familiar call of a crow. 



Osage, 



