A NOVEMBER CHRONICLE. 127 



if one is making a list, a blossom is a blos- 

 som. The greater part of the asters and 

 golden-rods, I think, were plants that had 

 been broken down by one means or another, 

 and now, at this late day, had put forth a 

 few stunted sprays. The narrow-leaved as- 

 ter (Aster linariifolius) seemed peculiarly 

 out of season, and was represented by only 

 two heads, but these sufficed to bring the 

 mouth-filling name into my catalogue. Of 

 the two species of native violets I saw but 

 a single blossom each. My pansy (common 

 enough in gardens, and blooming well into 

 December) was, of course, found by the 

 roadside, and the larkspur likewise, as I 

 made nothing of any but wild plants. 



At this time of the year one must not 

 expect to pick flowers anywhere and every- 

 where, and a majority of all my seventy- 

 three species (perhaps as many as two 

 thirds) were found only in one or more of 

 three particular places. The first of these 

 was along a newly laid-out road through a 

 tract of woodland; the second was a shel- 

 tered wayside nook between high banks ; 

 and the third was at the seashore. At this 

 last place, on the 8th of the month, I came 



