On Historic Ground. 121 



oven-bird and the pleasant lisping of a passing 

 warbler. Reading here and there in the open 

 pagesx of the woodland almanac, my mind ran to 

 orchids, and, careless of the treacherous foot-path, 

 my eyes sought the damp soil between mossy 

 rocks, hoping at every step to find some treasure 

 of fantastic bloom. Nor did I look in vain. That 

 pink-and-white beauty, the showy orchis, unknown 

 at the home hill-side, grew here in great profusion. 

 Still, despite their numbers, it needed constant 

 care to spy them out, they were so carefully 

 guarded by overtopping growths. It is not 

 strange that many people pass through the woods 

 and xre-enter the open world empty-handed, and 

 worse, without a new idea. In matters botanical, 

 as well as those of more practical and prosy 

 nature, eternal vigilance is the price of novelty. 



But the woods were not all green and orchid- 

 spotted. The pinxter flower held its showy head 

 aloft, and whenever the genial sunbeams struggled 

 through the interlocking branches of the trees, 

 bluebells and snowy wind-flower brightened the 

 grim, gray rocks. It was a fitting place to rest 

 and ruminate, here, where the sloping rocks offered 



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