146 Bog-Trotting for Orchids 



have fallen fast asleep here beneath these shades, yet I 

 was far from home, and my boots were heavy and wet. 



I made slow progress homeward to-day, with my 

 heavy foot-gear and vasculum. I followed the dusty 

 road to the Ball Farm gate. Here I turned into the 

 old grassy way which had been in use before the pres- 

 ent road was built near Thompson's Brook. One can 

 scarcely trace a track of the traffic of the past years in 

 the present sod. The stone walls on either side of the 

 lane are hidden with woodbine and red-raspberry 

 bushes. Beside this path towers a great pine tree. I 

 had promised myself a long rest beneath this shade, 

 and gladly threw down my pack, and made a pillow of 

 my tin can. 



The fleecy clouds rolled across the infinite blue over 

 my head, and a sense of relaxation and solitude stole 

 over me. I must have fallen asleep, and I was sud- 

 denly aroused by the cawing of crows that were cir- 

 cling above me, — wondering perhaps whether Major 

 and I were in a proper condition for their approach. 



I was more tired after my rest than before, and I be- 

 gan to question, as many of my neighbors had done, 

 the wisdom and profit of my bog-trotting. Well, my 

 neighbors see no value in pitcher-plants and sundew. 

 They say there is no money in them, and pity me for 

 investing my time as I do. Neither do I understand 

 why the farmer chooses to cultivate squash rather than 

 follow some other occupation. It is his business to 

 cultivate squash as it is my business to cultivate sun- 

 dew. Some crops are failures in their monetary re- 



