MOSSES AND LICHENS OF THE PACIFIC COAST. 61 



MOSSES AND LICHENS OF THE PACIFIC COAST. 



BY JOSIAH KEEP. 



In speaking of the mosses and lichens of the Pacific Coast, per- 

 mit me to treat the subject in a manner somewhat more general than 

 might be expected from the title of my paper. For, indeed, it seems 

 not altogether unfitting, at a session of this Floral Congress, to empha- 

 size the esthetic element rather than the severely critical, to revel 

 in beauty more than in terminology, to talk of what we all can appreci- 

 ate and love. Therefore, let no one fear that my minutes will be 

 devoted to reading catalogues of hard names ; on the other hand, I would 

 fain take you out with me, in spirit, at least, into the green woods, 

 and sit down for a little time on the overgrown rocks and gravelly 

 banks which form the borders of a clear flowing stream. In this spirit 

 let us now proceed. 



The objects concerning which I have been requested to write con- 

 stitute some of the more humble divisions of the great vegetable king- 

 dom, and yet a charm lies in their very humility. They never oppress 

 and overburden us with their towering magnificence; as do sometimes 

 the mighty monarchs of the forest. They are the simple children of 

 the earth, fresh and guileless, sweet and pure. They are creatures of 

 the present, not so long-lived as to challenge our reverence, nor so fleet- 

 ing as to give us a thought of pain as we contemplate their brief 

 lives, but remaining familiarly in their places till we become accus- 

 tomed to their presence, and then either disappearing or gradually 

 giving place to another generation. 



The poet of nature scarcely ever fails to note their charm, and cool 

 and refreshing references to their presence are found throughout litera- 

 ture. 



"The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

 The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well." 



What a charming picture of dripping coolness ! The well, deep 

 and sweet; the bucket, rude and strong, yet withal fringed with nature's 

 most delicate tassels; the water, cold and clear, fit for the drink not 

 only of a god, but also of a hot, happy, healthy boy. Surely, there 

 was more of life's poetry in drinking from that moss-covered bucket 

 than there is in our time in quenching our thirst from 



The new brazen faucet, the nickel-trimmed faucet, 

 The Spring; Valley faucet, which stands in the wall. 



But some eastern friend may be about to call me to order, and 

 remind me that the blessed moss of the old bucket grew in the far- 

 away state of Massachusetts, and that in no sense can it be classed 



