48 ABOUT ORCHIDS. 
petals, what human imagination could bend the 
graceful curve, arrange the clustering masses of 
its bloom? All beauty that the mind can hold is 
there—the quintessence of all charm and fancy. 
Were I acquainted with an atheist who, by possi- 
bility, had brain and feeling, I would set that 
spray before him and await reply. If Solomon in 
all his glory was not arrayed like a lily of the field, 
the angels of heaven have no vesture more ethereal 
than the flower of the orchid. Let us take breath. 
Many persons indifferent to gardening—who are 
repelled, indeed, by its prosaic accompaniments, 
the dirt, the manure, the formality, the spade, the 
rake, and all that—love flowers nevertheless. For 
such these plants are more than a relief. Observe 
my Oncidium. It stands in a pot, but this is only 
for convenience—a receptacle filled with moss, 
The long stem feathered with great blossoms 
springs from a bare slab of wood. No mould nor 
peat surrounds it; there is absolutely nothing save 
the roots that twine round their support, and the 
wire that sustains itin the air. It asks no atten- 
tion beyond its daily bath. From the day I tied it 
on that block last year—reft from home and all its 
pleasures, bought with paltry silver at Stevens’ 
Auction Rooms—I have not touched it save to 
dip and to replace it on its hook. When the 
