lOO Bog-Trotting for Orchids 



me, I soon hear his j-elp on my track. Dear old Major! 

 I value you more than I tell you by these gentle strokes, 

 — you, whose searching instincts would find me out 

 wherever I might be, and whose keen scent of danger 

 is my constant protection! 



Everything was still in the hollow to-day, save for 

 the croaking of the bull-frogs and the buzzing of flies 

 and humming of bees, echoing from the pools and nu- 

 merous flowers of Solomon's Seal along the edges of 

 the swamp. It was noon when I reached my colony 

 of Ram's-Heads, and I was glad to be sheltered in 

 these cool glades this sweltering July day. I took 

 note near what species of trees my rare Cypripediums 

 grew, and found that they were rooted in loose leaf 

 mould, from long decayed heaps of pine branches and 

 tree- tops, left by the woodman when the forest was 

 first hewn from these slopes. Here, also, stood crum- 

 bling stumps, and prostrate trunks lay at full length, 

 decaying in the marl and peat. Among this moulder- 

 ing soil was a pile of four-foot white birchwood — near 

 some of the best plants of Ram's-Head, three of which 

 bore maturing seed-pods. Directly through the group, 

 a wood-path wound around the hill from Cold Spring 

 toward the north, worn by the small wild animals of 

 the forest. 



Just east of the plants I had found on Sunday, I dis- 

 covered at least fifty more, withdrawn to themselves, in 

 aristocratic exclusiveness. I lifted three of the oldest 

 and largest plants, two of which bore large seed-pods, 

 taking them up carefully and with plenty of soil, so as 



