MOSSES AND LICHENS OF THE PACIFIC COAST. 07 



they stand upon short stems and resemble goblets or wine-glasses; in 

 other species they are set like tiny cups and saucers in the substance 

 of the lichen. Together with the thallus, or leaf-like portion of the 

 plant, they give tone and color and beauty to objects which without 

 their presence would be cold and dull and unsightly. The linings of 

 these brilliant cups are made up, to a considerable extent, of minute 

 sacks, containing the spores of the fungus partner of the firm. These 

 spores are scattered by various means, and perhaps one out of a mil- 

 lion finds a congenial resting-place, attracts a suitable partner, and 

 the long chain of life begins once more. 



In general, we may divide the lichens into three great divisions. 

 First, there are the "crustaceous lichens." We meet with these on 

 rocks and the bark of trees. They are humble affairs, spreading over 

 the surface with no more thickness than that of a daub of paint, 

 but, unlike the mark of a paint-brush, showing a decided organic appear- 

 ance, and presenting evidences of real growth. Some of them are 

 powdery in texture, and when dry they seem almost like yellow OP 

 dark-colored dust. The second group includes the so-called leafy or 

 foliose lichens. To these belong the Parmelias, which so profusely 

 adorn the limbs of oak and buckeye trees, and spread out in such 

 marvelous mats and rosettes on the posts and rails of old woodland 

 fences. 



The fruticose lichens embrace the third variety; the name, meaning 

 bushy, implying that the plant puts forth twigs and forking branches, 

 like a bush or shrub. A little thicket of vegetation is thus often 

 made, a miniature forest, perhaps an inch in diameter, and half that 

 in height, though often much larger. 



As I wrote these words, a friendly twinge of headache sent me out 

 into the fresh air for a little walk. I entered the woods, skirted the 

 miniature lake, and paused by an ancient fence, built of primitive 

 redwood rails. Immediately beyond it was a steep hill, its northern 

 slope covered with old trees, mostly oaks and buckeyes, while ferns 

 and flowers grow abundantly beneath their overhanging branches. 



I have long been familiar with this very spot, and have enjoyed 

 many a quiet communing with nature in the shade of these trees. 

 But never before was I so impressed with the wealth of ornament 

 to be found on the surface of this old fence and the bark of these 

 trees. In places, the rails were almost hidden by a dusty, living paint, 

 with a soft gray tint, cool and restful. Mingled with this were the 

 frilled Parmelias, spreading in places over a space which my two hands 

 could not cover, greenish-gray without, pure white within, and black 

 beneath. Scattered among these were little clumps of the bushy kinds, 

 of various colors, while sundry spots of "bright yellow told me that the 



