36 THE EVOLUTIONIST AT LARGE, 



IV. 



A SPRIG OF WATER CROWFOOT. 



THE little ^streamlet whose tiny ranges and 

 stickles form the middle thread of this green 

 combe in the Dorset downs is just at present 

 richly clad with varied foliage. Tall spikes 

 of the yellow flag rise above the slow-flowing 

 pools, while purple loose-strife overhangs the 

 bank, and bunches of the arrowhead stand 

 high out of their watery home, just unfolding 

 their pretty waxen white flowers to the air. 

 In the rapids, on the other hand, I find the 

 curious water crowfoot, a spray of which I 

 have this moment pulled out of the stream 

 and am now holding in my hand as I sit on 

 the little stone bridge, with my legs dangling 



